


Red Rising

by PrettyMissKitty



Series: Misadventures of the Baby BatBros [3]
Category: Batgirl (Comics), Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman and Robin (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Red Hood: Lost Days, Red Robin (Comics), Robin (Comics), Under the Red Hood
Genre: Adopted Sibling Relationship, Angst, Angst and Feels, BAMF Alfred Pennyworth, Barbara Gordon is Oracle, Bat Brothers, Bat Family, Batfamily Feels, Child Neglect, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Drug Use, Emotional Baggage, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Gen, Hallucinations, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt Tim Drake, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Jason Todd is Red Hood, M/M, Obsessive Behavior, Past Abuse, Past Character Death, Past Torture, Psychological Trauma, Resurrected Jason Todd, Self-Acceptance, Self-Destruction, Self-Discovery, Self-Doubt, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Sibling Bonding, Stalker Tim Drake, Team Bonding, Team as Family, Tim Drake is Robin, Tim Drake-centric, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, hurt people hurt people
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2019-05-02 15:45:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14548041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyMissKitty/pseuds/PrettyMissKitty
Summary: Tim doesn’t believe in heroes any more. He has no reason to. That fantasy is beyond him now.Jason Peter Wayne-Todd is dead. Robin, the Boy Wonder, Batman's young partner… Tim’s idol… and his friend… has died. Tim had just gotten used to the idea of having a friend… and now that friend is dead. It's a fact at this point. A statistic.Robin is Dead.But Batman NEEDS a Robin. And since Jason died for the Crusade, since Jason LIVED for it... Tim's gonna protect that legacy no matter what. Tim's world might be ending, but he's going to ensure that Gotham stays standing in the aftermath.***A stand alone Tim Drake becoming Robin story that follows his struggle to become an adequate replacement for the hero that he idolized - one that doesn't make him an athletic prodigy, or magic him into being awesome. This is a story that takes the grit and determination (and mild psychosis and penchant for obsessiveness) that naturally makes him awesome and shows how he applies that to becoming worthy of the Robin mantle.It fits into the AU of this series (where Tim and Jason met while Jason was Robin), but it can easily be read without the others.





	1. Boy in a Black Suit

**Author's Note:**

> This is essentially a stand alone revolving around Tim's reaction to Jason's death (and eventual resurrection), it's set in the AU of the other fics in this series (with Tim and Jason meeting while Jason was Robin), but again you don't really need to have read the others to understand the plot of this one.
> 
> It's /MUCH/ darker than the others in the series, primarily because no one is in a good (or even decent) head space. There's a ton of angst and anguish and self doubt and self loathing... and people being mean to people for no good reason... alas, people who are hurting often hurt other people, so... yeah, not a happy story. 
> 
> But I think it's a pretty fascinating read.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim attempts to cope with a loss he doesn't think he's allowed to mourn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: self abuse and a generally terrible head space...

  **Chapter 1 – the Boy in the Black Suit**

            Gotham was built for tragedy.

            Greek tragedy. _Shakespearean_ tragedy.

            With the clean lines of its glass and steel and concrete façade, and the rust and rot and crumbling decay of its infrastructure, Gotham was truly a stage of sets and false glamor – all tied together by the archaic elegance of gothic architecture.

 

            It was never meant to be a place of happy endings, and most of Gotham’s citizens had long ago made their peace with that.

 

            Even the weather did its part to contribute to the dreary _ache_ of the atmosphere, resolutely remaining grey and blustery all year-round. Gotham’s rain was an almost daily affair, and the showers were laced with ice from the first frost of September until _at least_ the first brave bloom of flowers in late April.

            Sleet in May was not an unusual occurrence – even if this particular storm was rather more biting than average, the response of Gotham’s citizenry was simply to hike up their collars and grumble into their coffee with a slightly more bitter tone than usual.

 

            It felt appropriate.

 

            A fittingly despondent backdrop to a dour funeral procession as it snaked its way slowly over the gently rolling hills of the Coventry Gardens Cemetery.

            From across the sleet-slicked, glossy green of the Gardens’ lawn, the latest procession was observed by a young boy – seated on the edge of a wrought iron bench, with a perfectly straight spine, an eerie stillness, and the sort of stoic grief in his expression that had led to his being left alone over recent weeks by cemetery visitors and staff alike.

 

            Timothy Jackson Drake had attended, from a distance, every single funeral held at Coventry Gardens for the last three weeks.

 

            He was soaked to the bone with the freezing rain – for the third time this week alone.

 

            Only two days, out of the twenty-four at which his vigil currently stood, had dawned without a thick layer of frost coating the ground. And only eight days had reached a temperature above forty. Every day, from dawn to dusk – while the Gardens were officially open to visitors – Tim remained perfectly still on the wrought iron perch he’d chosen.

 

            He was there every morning when the caretaker arrived to unlock the gates with a box of donuts and a massive thermos of piping hot coffee. The coffee was always gone within the first two hours – the thermos set carefully aside by the time the caretake made his first rounds. The donuts lasted longer, but their container too was set aside by noon.

            At 6:45pm exactly, every day, he would stand without prompt and collect the empty vessels of what he’d brought this morning. By the time the caretaker had cleared the Gardens and went to lock the gates at seven, Timothy Jackson Drake was gone.

 

            The caretaker strongly suspected that the young man only left for long enough to get something to eat and possibly force down a catnap before returning illegally after dark.

 

            The old man felt it was a miracle the child wasn’t ill with pneumonia yet.

 

            Tim would be inclined to agree with him, if he were still tempted to believe in miracles.

 

            That fantasy was beyond him, however.

 

            The world was a far too awful place for that.

 

            There were no miracles in this world.

            There were no saviors, no heroes…

 

            Jason Peter Wayne-Todd was dead.

 

            Robin, the Boy Wonder… Tim’s _idol_ … and his _friend_ … had died.

 

            Tim had just gotten used to the idea of having a friend… and now that friend was dead.

 

            It was a fact at this point.

            A statistic.

            There was even an autopsy report.

 

            Jason Peter Wayne-Todd had joined the tragic ranks of American children who had died before they turned eighteen.

 

            Officially, Jason had died while spending his spring break doing humanitarian aid work in Africa. He was just another starry eyed kid trying to save the world who’d gotten burned for his naivety – a kid from the wrong side of Gotham’s tracks who’d been rescued by a billionaire and wanted to save people who were even worse off than he’d been.

            The story in the papers said that Jason had gotten caught in the crossfire between two rogue militia groups in the untamed lands beyond the reach of Ethiopia’s legitimate government. There were a few different variations on the dramatic tale, each with only subtle differences woven in – to make it seem like individual reporters had actually done their own research to confirm the story.

 

            Tim knew better.

 

            The stories in the papers were lies.

 

            Jason had been in Ethiopia chasing down the truth behind his own history. His birth mother had been an unknown entity until very recently, and Sheila Haywood was a remarkable woman to discover as a genetic relation – a pioneering doctor, respected foreign aid worker, and famed humanitarian. For the first time in a long time, Jason was proud of who he was and eager to live up to the potential in himself – potential and importance he’d somehow begun to doubt.

 

            He hadn’t told anyone when he’d left. Or where he was going.

 

            Jason had called Tim from Gotham International Airport just before he boarded a plane, saying that he was chasing down another lead – after several others had surfaced just like this and he’d called Tim just before disappearing only to reappear shortly after the false leads came up dry. This time he’d been more confident, saying he wouldn’t be back for a while.

            With a cocky air of self-assurance Jason had promised he would check in after a week or so, but only after complaining that he _had_ to because Tim was ridiculously clever for a stupid little worry wart and would find _some_ way to bother him if he didn’t.

 

            That was April 18th.

 

            By April 20th, Jason had been betrayed by Sheila Haywood.

            And been turned over to the Joker.

 

            The _Joker_.

 

            Over the next seven to ten days, Jason was tortured to the brink of death. Kept there for a while if the details in the anonymous autopsy report logged in the deepest vaults of the GCPD archives were to be believed – which Tim felt they were, considering how hard it had been to hack his way in to read the report. The only reason he’d found it at all was a twist of automated redundancies that was part of why nothing could ever truly be deleted from the netscape.

 

            The final cause of death was an explosion.

 

            Tim had no doubt that it was an escape attempt.

            Probably one that was very nearly successful if the Joker had needed to blow up the entire militia base instead of simply recapturing Jason with no fuss.

 

            The official date of Jason’s death was recorded as April 27th.

 

            But all the details were hazy and Tim couldn’t tell for certain. He hadn’t seen the crime scene himself, and there weren’t any pictures logged on any database – except possibly the Bat Computer, which Tim still hadn’t managed to hack.

 

            An automated brute-force program on an untraceable, purpose built construction in his school basement is working on it.

            It was linked to his phone – also purpose built, and designed to be untraceable – for instant updates. That phone was also tracking all avenues of data Tim can think of to gather info on the current whereabouts and activities of the rest of Gotham’s so-called heroes.

 

            Tim doesn’t believe in heroes any more.

 

            He has no reason to.

 

            Besides, Gotham’s heroes don’t believe in _themselves_ any more.

 

            Nightwing is gone.

            He was off-planet with the Teen Titans and the League when it happened.

            He got back a week ago.

            Richard John Wayne-Grayson had officially been enjoying a trip around Europe when his adoptive brother died – too far off the grid in the Italian Alps to contact.

 

            He had missed Jason’s official memorial. And he had missed the funeral.

 

            Dick had missed the chance to say goodbye to the little bother he’d only _just_ managed to connect with like a proper family member in their chaotic and tension-fraught world…

 

            He had _not_ missed when he’d swung a punch at Bruce Wayne’s face. He hit _that_ mark perfectly, and hard enough to nearly shatter Bruce’s jaw.

 

            Dick had officially spent two days grieving at Wayne Manor, had unofficially spent two nights tearing his way through the Gotham underworld as Nightwing, and then he’d simply packed a bag and left without a word to anyone.

 

            Tim wasn't sure where he was at the moment – but he _was_ sure that part was entirely intentional.

 

            So Nightwing was _gone_.

 

 

            And Batgirl… Batgirl was…

 

            Barbara Gordon was alive.

            She may have been the only person in the world who had known where Jason was going when he left for Ethiopia – it had probably been Barbara that gave him the tip-off to start with.

 

            The Joker had shot her for it.

            Or maybe the reason he’d shot her was to keep Barbara from spilling the secret of the Joker’s involvement – involvement that she undoubtably would have uncovered in time to warn Jason about it. Or at least to warn _someone_ about it. Probably in time to save him.

 

            She’d spent the week after being shot in a coma. She won’t ever walk again.

 

            She was still in the hospital.

 

            Barbara Gordon was alive. But she would never be able to don the Batgirl cowl again.

 

            So Batgirl was gone too.

 

 

            Which left Batman.

 

 

            Batman was still a presence in the Gotham night.

            But not the way he used to be.

 

            It had only been a few weeks, but already Tim had noticed a difference.

 

            It was a subtle difference, like the shift from sleet to snow, but a significant one.

 

            It started with injuries.

 

            Injuries that Batman suffered because he hadn’t been quick enough to dodge, hadn't been motivated enough to fully _want_ to dodge. It was a volatile and extreme version of repentance via self flagellation – terrible, brutal, and escalating… soon to be life threatening.

 

            But it wasn’t just Batman taking damage…

            It was also Batman _dealing_ damage.

 

            The criminals that Batman apprehended needed medical attention prior to being incarcerated in only about 1/3 of the incidents where Batman interrupted a crime prior to Jason's death. Within just the first week of the aftermath, that statistic had risen to almost half and it had continued to creep higher and higher until reports began coming in of even unresisting criminals requiring hospital care prior to being booked by police.

 

            It was now an extremely rare occurrence that a criminal set upon by Batman in the night was not hospitalized for a week or even more.

 

            There was starting to be talk about re-declaring Batman to be a criminal himself. When the Crusade had first begun, Batman had been considered a criminal and a threat to the peace, but that mindset had quickly been replaced by a brand of trust and favor as Batman proved far more helpful than harmful. Unfortunately that balance was shifting.

 

            And with Jason Peter Wayne-Todd having a very publicized death and being linked directly to Bruce Wayne's grief... it would be far too easy to connect it to Batman’s loss of Robin if Batman were ever to admit that Robin had died.

            Diana knew. And Clark. But Wonder Woman and Superman were practically family.

            There _were_ already _rumors_ that Robin had been killed, but fortunately, claims made by the Joker – especially about hazy, nebulous events with no surviving witnesses based in distant, closed off countries – were taken with a healthy dose of salt. Besides Robin had ‘died’ before.

 

            When Dick ran off to California.

 

            His absence had sparked the same rumors flitting about Gotham presently. Well, a few details were different, but not the ones that mattered.

            The more accepted rumors currently running off the mill revolved around the possibility that Batman’s notorious ill-humor had chased the young Robin off. Again.

 

            Last time, it took about a month before Robin appeared in California with a new start-up crew of young super heroes calling themselves the Teen Titans.

 

            This time, Tim didn’t think anyone was going to start considering rumors of Robin’s death as credible for another few weeks, at least. Two months, maybe three.

            But still.

 

            It would soon be very difficult to keep the identities of Batman and Bruce Wayne separate enough to fool anyone, let alone anyone paying attention. After all, Tim had figured out the secret when he was less than ten years old – and he’d first managed it by connecting Robin to Dick Grayson. He’d gotten lucky with having seen Dick with the Flying Graysons of Haly’s Circus perform the same, unique maneuver as he saw Robin do a few years later.

            Tim had already been a die hard fan of both Dick Grayson the acrobat and of Robin.

 

            Very few other people could’ve potentially noticed that direct connection.

 

            But a quadruple somersault is not a dead body.

            It’s not a grave in Wayne Manor’s sprawling back yard – out in the wilder part of the gardens that Jason so dearly loved, the part with the gnarled twisting trunks of willows and mossy, wide flung oaks. It’s not the absence of a child whose mere existence made both a billionaire and bat-themed vigilante notably better people – notably softer, kinder, more thoroughly humanized and relatable people.

            It would be much easier for people to notice the connection between the death of Jason Todd and that of the second Robin. Especially when considering how much more time Bruce Wayne was beginning to spend beneath the Bat’s dark cowl.

 

            Bruce had immediately retreated from most of his public duties as the head of Wayne Enterprises when Jason’s death was announced.

            At this point, he never so much as left Wayne Manor.

            Batman, on the other hand, was going out more and more often – he’d even been spotted patrolling Gotham in broad daylight recently.

            And the truth behind the violence of his darkening reputation was disheartening.

 

            So Batman was still a presence in Gotham.

 

            But the Batman that was patrolling Gotham these days was a very different Batman than the one Tim had been inspired by – than the one _Gotham_ had been inspired by… _defended_ by…

 

            So essentially, Batman was gone too.

 

            It was tragic. It was fitting.

 

            Jason Todd was dead, and everything else in Tim’s world was falling apart.

 

            The only cape in Gotham still running the rounds like it was business as usual was Spoiler. Her range was Robbinsville, which was hardly the worst neighborhood in Gotham. And she’d only met Robin a few times, and even then it was only from behind the mask.

            Spoiler wasn’t torn up about Jason’s death.

 

            She was however pissed at Tim.

 

            When Tim had stopped showing up to their weekly donut shop meet up, when he’d missed three weeks in a row, she’d tried to find him – managed to piece it together that he’d been haunting the Gardens.

            The caretaker was right about Tim’s habits of leaving the cemetery for only so long as it took to get a fresh thermos of coffee, to grab a twenty minute catnap so he didn’t just drop dead himself of outright exhaustion – and of course, to wait for the staff to all get far enough away to ensure they weren’t around to notice, or be held libel for, his inevitable return.

 

            It was a snap to vault over the low stone wall surrounding the back side of the cemetery’s oldest section, and insultingly easy to avoid the grand total of _five_ CCTV cameras on the entire estate – all arranged with downright _pitiful_ attention to detail on the placement angles.

            Tim had broken into laundromats with better security.

            Yeah. He wasn’t going home much these days.

            Or at all, really.

 

            After more than three weeks of maintaining his vigil at Coventry Gardens, Spoiler tracked him down to one of the laundromats nearby – found a security tape clip of him scoping the place out from the coffee shop across the street and a traffic cam of him crossing the intersection at the same spot several hours later, well after the shop had closed.

 

            He’d gotten sloppy about his surveillance.

 

            And he’d gotten lazy about the alarms – simply deactivating them altogether instead of disarming them exclusively for his entrance and exit. Jason had taught him a few new tricks to beat the alarm, but he’d already had enough break in experience from getting into buildings and out through alarmed fire escapes while chasing Batman and Robin around to supposedly know better than to just open a locked door and leave it that way.

 

            Spoiler had slipped inside after him that night when he needed to get fresh clothes or risk succumbing to death by hypothermia before the week was out – had cornered him while he’d been pulling a fresh suit out of the duffle he’d stashed in the sub-ceiling.

 

            “You know, there _are_ laundromats that stay open all night,” she’d sassed, “You don’t _have_ to illegally break into one that’s decided to stay closed.”

 

            She’d meant it as a joke, but Tim hadn’t been in the mood.

 

            “Not in Coventry, there aren't,” he'd snapped, keeping his back to her.

 

            Initially, she'd been gentle with him, determined to see his foul temper as a burst of misplaced grief – tragic, inappropriate, but reasonable, and _forgivable._

            “Jeez, kiddo,” she crooned, “Take a breath, for me.”

            “I’m not a kid,” Tim retorted. Harshly. He rolled a muscle in his jaw – clenched teeth grinding together – as Spoiler ignored his tone and words altogether, and instead just sighed.

            “So why you holed up here of all places?” Her question was quiet, her tone still as soft and understanding as she could make it without revealing the depth of pity behind it.

 

            Stephanie Brown knew a thing or two about pity.

            Tim knew her backstory well enough to be aware of that much without question. Spoiler knew better than most that pity wasn’t any kind of helpful to anyone.

            But she was also a pretty terrible liar, and _did_ pity him, so she couldn't do much to hide the nature of the weight behind her words.

            “I'm here because I want to be,” Tim ground out.

 

            It was an almost true statement.

 

            Tim wanted to be in Coventry more than he wanted to be anywhere else he could go.

 

            Coventry had 24 hour coffee shops, and a laundromat, and a gym where Tim's new membership meant he could nab a shower every few days or so – which lead to having the means to maintain a pretense of suitability and rational dignity that the mandate of the Drake reputation had long ago drilled into him. Coventry had a quiet cemetery, with a bench in an area that resembled the spot behind Wayne Manor where satellite imagery showed a newly installed shady seating area and the disturbed earth of what could only be a fresh grave - _Jason's_ grave.

 

            Tim had not been informed of Jason's death – he'd figured it out when all of Bruce Wayne's meetings and public appearances were abruptly canceled and his private jet had submitted a flight plan for Ethiopia.

            And Tim had not been invited to Jason's funeral – as a neighbor who had only really begun associating with Jason less than three years ago, and only casually and on occasion at that… Tim had no legitimate claim to be included in the intimate family ceremony.

 

            Tim couldn’t bear to be in his own house.

            The Drake Estate was too cold, too empty, too painfully close to Wayne Manor to make staying there bearable.

            And it’s not like he had any right to go directly to Wayne Manor itself.

            So Tim was here, in Coventry – pretending to still be a person, pretending to be working towards closure – because Jason was dead and Robin was dead and Tim wasn't allowed to mourn what he hadn't officially lost.

 

            And Spoiler’s presence wasn’t helping.

 

            “I'm here because I want to be,” he repeated to her, adding nastily, “And I don't see why it's any of your business.”

 

            Spoiler sighed heavily, her patience wearing thin at his persistent rudeness. Tim still had his back to her, even – he hadn't bothered with the bare courtesy of turning around to talk.

            “I get that you miss him, okay?” She told him softly, “I get it. But you can’t just let your own life fall apart like this. I know how bad shit like this can seem, and I’m worried about you.”

            Tim had stopped messing with his duffle, if only because his hands were shaking too much to manage the feat without dropping everything – and there by validating Spoiler’s concern and proving all over again how he was too pathetic to handle himself like a reasonable person should have been able to at least _pretend_ they could.

 

            And then Spoiler had done the one thing she could do that was worse than showing pity: she tried to show support. Tried in the way that idiotic children or overly attached grown-ups shows support to regular kids. She tried to hug him.

            She put a warm hand on his shoulder – contact that made every muscle in his body seize up – and drew him around to face her. Pulling him towards her as she said, “I know you miss him, but what would he say about what you're doing to yourself?”

 

            Unfortunately, Tim knew _exactly_ what Jason would say – and he knew what Jason would say to Spoiler if she'd tried anything with him like she was trying with Tim – and before Tim could stop himself, he’d embraced that horrible idea with an open mouth.

            “Because _your_ life is such a stunning example of successful coping, right? Sorry, _Stephanie_ , but I fail to see where you gain the high ground in this scenario,” Tim snapped. “At least, I can take care of my own affairs instead of having to throw yet more work onto the shoulders of my financial support system. Instead of piling more tasks and more worry onto Mrs. Crystal Brown's unending to-do list while you run around playing vigilante. Something you only took up to start with because your own father was a frickin super villain.”

 

            Stephanie yanked her hand backwards even before Tim moved to brush it off his shoulder – cradling it to her chest like he’d tossed it on a hot burner.

 

            “You know who I am?”

 

            With a callous snort that made Tim understand why Jason always jumped so quickly to such defensive, _abrasive_ scoffing, Tim huffed, “You’re not exactly the most impressive vigilante I’ve ever unmasked, Spoiler.”

            Spoiler's wounded stare slowly hardened to a vicious glare. “Well, if you’re just gonna be a jerk about it, I'll leave you to your pointless moping,” she said, volume steadily escalating. “But don’t pretend you’re all alone for any reason but yourself, asshole.”

            Tim knew her words were true and did not pretend to dispute them.

            And he did not try to stop her from running off into the night – didn’t try to apologize for what he'd done, how rude he’d been, how awful.

            He didn’t even wish inside his own head that he hadn’t been so mean.

 

            He just felt tired.

 

            Tim felt tired and cold and _aching_.

            The damp chill of his suit barely registered over the ice forming inside his veins.

 

            He sank to the floor and splayed his fingers over the blue and white linoleum as he pressed his forehead to his knees.

 

            Jason Peter Todd was dead.

 

            And Tim's body knew he had no real right to cry, so nothing like a sob was behind what set him shaking just then.

            But something had made his shaking start and it once started, it wouldn’t stop.

 

            Tim curled around his knees, fingers twining through his hair and yanking hard – nails clawing at the back of his neck.

            He shouldn’t be like this, shouldn’t be the useless, this pathetic, this awful… Spoiler hadn’t deserved that, but at least she wasn’t going to waste any more of her time on him.

 

            So that was fine.

 

            And he still had two more months before his parents came back from the dig they were away on in the sacred mountains of Mongolia, so he could pull himself together enough to manage their expectations of him before they came home.

 

            It was fine.

 

            Tim was fine.

 

            His world was _gone_ , but he would be able to carry on as if it weren't.

 

            He had to. He had to protect Jason's secret, to honor his legacy – and to do that Tim had to be fine, be able to _pretend_ at being fine, at least.

 

            He had to. So he would.

 

            Just as soon as he stopped shaking.

 

            But the encounter with Spoiler had gotten under his skin.

 

            He knew what Jason would say. And with his brain going on 10 hours without coffee and his body running on 50 hours without sleep – and his universe running on approximately 526 hours without Jason – his addled, tragic, pining little mind created a phantom meant specifically for him to say what he knew Jason would.

 

            The phantom kicked his shoe to get his attention – Jason's scuffed old sneakers against his currently muddy high tops. Tim lifted his head enough to stare at them for a moment, then followed the line of Jason's usual dark jeans up his legs, over his usual black T-shirt and the red hoodie he always wore over it. The phantom had a cigarette and dragged on it with a delicate attentiveness as he pointedly avoided looking at Tim while he loomed.

 

            “Dude, like, what the _fuck_ are you doing?” the phantom demanded, finally looking at Tim as he blew out a lungful of toxic smoke.

 

            Tim craned his neck to meet the phantom's glare with a blank expression. He didn’t have any excuses – he didn't even have any valid _reasons_.

 

            “You're a god damn piece of work, you know that, Timmers?”

            Tim managed to pull air into his lungs, cold and jagged, but it got stuck on the way out and he barely succeeded in his effort to wheeze, “I’m sorry.”

            “I don’t fucking care, squirt,” the phantom huffed. “I’m dead. And you're doing… what? Working your way towards being, like, the lamest burglar ever? _Seriously_? What about Batman? When was the last time you went out and snapped a fucking photo of that dumbass?”

            Tim shrugged – the slight movement a significant effort as his muscles started suddenly to feel like cooling tar. The ice inside him growing jagged in his veins.

            “You know he’s out tonight, don't you?”

            Tim gave a slow nod, neck aching with resistance.

 

            “So?”

 

            Tim knew what he wanted, what he was suggesting… refused to admit it.

            The figment he’d conjured up of Jason took another drag on his cigarette, waiting for an answer. When none came he sighed in a huff of smoke and asked sharply, “Why aren’t you out there chasing after him?”

            “Because it’s different,” Tim admitted, “ _He’s_ different. It’s Batman, but it’s not _Batman_.”

            Jason’s phantom snorted derisively and said, “And why the fuck is that?”

 

            Tim blinked at him.

 

            “Because…” he replied, hardly able to make himself contemplate the words, let alone speak them. “Because… you… because you d-.”

            Jason rolled his eyes and shot Tim  a flat look. “You know that’s only _part_ of the fucking problem, Timbo,” he drawled, adding, “I know you do. You’re the one that told me. So? What’s different, baby bird? What does Batman need?”

            Tim tried not to answer, resisted speaking the answer he knew.

            “ _Robin_ ,” Tim sighed eventually, letting his head fall heavily back to his knees as he elaborated, “Batman needs a Robin.”

            “And?” Jason’s phantom prompted, taking another long drag on his cigarette that took his attention off of Tim. “What the fuck are you gonna do about that?”

 

            A final shudder rippled through Tim as the niggle of an idea crept up his spine.

 

            It was a _terrible_ idea – truly awful and inconsiderate, very nearly blasphemous – and Tim forced his head up to stare at the bored face of the figment he had conjured, letting the grief he had no right to feel squash the idea he had enough shame to know he shouldn’t act on.

 

            “You're _dead,”_ Tim finally managed to say aloud.

 

            “Yep,” the phantom replied, making sure the plosive popped dramatically, before adding with a wry twist, “I’m dead. But you know Robin _can't_ be.”

 

            Tim couldn’t respond; because the phantom was right… even if Tim didn't want to think about Jason being replaced.

            “B's not gonna go lookin' for a new Boy Blunder all on his own,” the phantom pointed out, “And with Dickiebird having flown the coop… _somebody's_ gotta knock some sense into the god damn Bat before Gotham goes entirely to shit.”

 

            Tim just let his head fall back to his knees.

            Squeezed his eyes shut against the pain of merely existing in a world where Jason didn’t.

 

            The phantom snorted and kicked his shoe again – kicked it harder when he didn’t respond in any way.

            “Hey, come on. Don’t be a whiny little bitch about it,” the phantom growled. “I became Robin for a reason and it was _not_ just to hang out with that Bat-faced asshole; an asshole that you're lettin' just run around like a roid-raging idiot in tights. I joined up to be part of the Crusade, to _help_ the fucking ingrates of this god damn city, and you’re just shittin' on all a'that like it never meant a damn thing to you.”

 

            Tim curled tighter around his knees.

 

            “You got caught up in following the capes around for a reason, and it ain’t just our good looks, because you were in to stalking B long before my pretty face showed up,” the phantom accused with painful accuracy. “Hell, you were a fucking creep-ass stalker before pretty ol’ Dickie boy even flashed his perfect pearly whites at you.”

            It was true, obviously. All of it was true – it was being spat at him by his own overwrought brain.  Tim couldn't deny it – and he couldn't ignore it any longer, either.

            Complicity in the Bat’s current spiral put him just as much as fault in the decline of Gotham's crime prevention as Batman's own wild antics. And with no one else able to step up and volunteer, it had to be Tim who put a stop to the mad recklessness.

 

            It had to be done, so Tim would do it.

 

            When Tim looked up, the phantom was gone.

            Its absence ached inside his chest all over again.

            A constricting anguish that made him feel like he was choking on his lungs.

 

            But now, Tim had a plan.

 

            One that actually attempted to honor Jason's memory, his _legacy._

 

            So, Tim pushed to his feet with only the slightest edge of reluctance, and that was mostly due to exhaustion.

            He shoved everything back into his duffle bag and then shouldered the pack before carefully resetting the laundromat's alarm and heading out.

 

            It was a long bleak walk across Gotham, and a night so wet and cold that hardly anyone was out at all, let alone anyone who would want to hassle him.

            Tim set a hard, but doable pace, and he reached the gates of the Drake Estate well before dawn. It had flit briefly through his mind to go track Batman down immediately, Tim knew he was out on patrol after all, but Tim was in no shape to make a decent case for himself.

 

            And he needed a _bulletproof_ presentation to convince Batman to listen.

 

            So, Tim had gone home.

 

            He’d let himself into the dark mansion – just as clean and un-lived-in as ever with his parents’ insistence on sending in a maid service every day and yet no Mrs Simz around while Tim was officially on an extended spring break – and gone straight up to his room.

            After setting the coffee maker to run a fresh pot and turning his computer on to warm up, Tim took a much-needed boiling hot shower.

            By the time he was finished, his coffee was ready. He downed half of it, and refilled what he'd drank twice, before bothering to walk away from the hot plate with his cup.

 

            He then sat down to make his case.

 

            The next day, at six in the morning when the caretaker of Coventry Gardens' Cemetery arrived to open the gates there was no one waiting for him. The boy in the black suit was gone – his heartbreaking vigil ended 479 hours after it began.

 

            It made an old man worry terribly to see such a young soul so consumed by grief and unacknowledged heartbreak. The boy's absence just then gave the caretaker hope that perhaps he had found some closure… such thoughts of hope and peace and other kindnesses were frivolous in Gotham, but he hoped nonetheless.

 

            As all of Gotham, and everyone who’d ever lived there, always had and always would.

 

 

* * *

 

 

*  *  *

 

> _Cold._
> 
> _The first thing that comes back to him in the darkness is the sensation of cold._
> 
> _Cold and damp._
> 
> _The air is wrong. Heavy._
> 
> _He is not supposed to be here._
> 
> _The urgency strikes hard and fast and the desperation that comes on its heels sends him reeling. Limbs seem like a memory, distant but real._
> 
> _He’s not sure if he has a body **now** , but he knows he had one once – knows that it… that it **hurt** the last time he was aware of it._
> 
> _He doesn’t want to feel that again, but there was something that he had to do… someone he was waiting for… and someone waiting for him._
> 
> _He can’t tell, can’t remember, can’t wholly understand._
> 
> _Like a dream he just **believes** is memory… or maybe just a memory too hazy and distant to feel like it could possibly be more than a dream._
> 
> _He just knows that something is wrong, and he needs to do something about it._
> 
> _So he does._
> 
> _Claws his way through the haze of metaphor around the abyss and pulls himself back._
> 
> _Back to something **real**._

___________ 

 


	2. Negotiations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim presents his arguments to Bruce.
> 
> And gives a real-world demonstration to ensure his points hit home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have exactly ZERO self control...
> 
> I wasn't going to post this until next week. But... yeah.
> 
> TIMMY.

 

** Chapter 2 – Negotiations **

 

            Getting up at 10am, Tim spent two hours going over last minute details on his casefile – the arguments to prove that Batman needed a Robin with him, and that Tim Drake himself was the only person currently able to step up and play that role, were all laid out in careful, undeniable terms that were both emotionally compelling and scientifically concrete.

            The dossier was thick, three inches of carefully organized paper – all laminated and bound to prevent any possibility of a mishap. Collated into sets of logical arguments, each color coded and independently packaged, assembled into a single dissertation that culminated in the same conclusion – with discredited counterpoints and an annotated historiography attached.

 

            The truth of the matter was profoundly irrefutable.

 

            All Tim had to do was present it properly.

 

            He took a shower and dressed in one of his good suits – not as good as quite the ones he’d wear to weddings or galas where his parents would see him, and not the suit he would have worn to Jason’s funeral had he been welcome there, but one that was good enough to promise that his day-job was far more interesting than average. He swept his hair to the side and gelled it into place – leaving just enough leeway for a bit of careful mussing to give it an edgy, stylish flair that remained well within the Drake defined limits of propriety but gave him a look of devil may care rebellion. He fixed gold cufflinks to his wrists and secured his elegant cranberry tie with a matching gold pin – a golden _robin_ pin that he’d bought himself for his last birthday.

            The Drake name, the wealth and reputation behind it, gave Tim a certain kind of invulnerability when dealing with most situations in the grown-up reality of the world, and Tim needed to feel as much of that brute confidence as possible when his current plan involved confronting _Batman_ so directly.

 

            Bruce Wayne might be impressive, but so was Timothy Drake.

 

            Once he was dressed and pressed and as well-prepared as he could possibly be, Tim slipped into his pea coat, grabbed his briefcase, and made the hike up to Wayne Manor. He had timed it carefully, intentionally – waiting until the middle of the afternoon, when Alfred would be on his daily errands run, but Bruce would be awake.

            Tim was fairly certain that Alfred would agree with his conclusion that Bruce was out of control and needed to change, but he was not sure the old butler would support his conclusion that Batman needed a Robin – or the proposal that Tim himself be permitted to fill the role. He didn’t need to convince Alfred, however, not yet, at least. The only person Tim needed to convince was Bruce and he had the right arguments to win his case – of that he was certain.

            When he made it to the front door of Wayne Manor, Tim rang the bell and waited.

 

            He waited an entire sixty seconds before he rang the bell again.

 

            He then waited another sixty seconds before repeating the action.

 

            Again.

 

            And again.

 

            Until he had been standing on the Waynes’ porch for just over 32 minutes.

 

            He could have likely picked the lock – Jason had been teaching him how to master that the finer points of that skill, and even with the Batlevel security on it, Tim could likely have managed – but part of his platform in this was respecting reasonable boundaries.

            Also, it was a fairly crucial step in the psychological manipulation side of Tim’s presentation to have Bruce Wayne break first.

 

            At 32 minutes, 27 seconds, Bruce Wayne wrenched open his massive front door.

 

            He looked terrible – for Bruce Wayne, at least.

 

            He was paler than he used to be, his face his going rather gaunt and his five o’clock shadow was edging more towards seven, by a generous count. There were dark bags under his eyes – eyes that were currently red with strain and dark with raging grief and fury. He was about to unleash a _very_ unbecoming string of words on the unwelcome solicitor darkening his door – many of them likely curses – when a glimmer of recognition sparked inside his brain.

 

            In the brief instant of pause, Tim plowed into his speech, “Good afternoon, Mr. Wayne. My name is Timothy Jackson Drake-”

            “I know who you are, Timothy.”

            “-and I’m here to tell you what your problem is,” Tim carried on, speaking right over Bruce as if his audience were silent. “I suggest you hear me out inside, as I believe that your particular choice to participate in _proactive public service_ is a personal ‘crusade’ you would rather have discussed in more secure quarters.”

            As Tim had spoken, Bruce’s face had gone from displaying tired confusion to an exhausted but fond amusement to a wary and keen disapproval.

            “Come inside, Timothy,” Bruce invited forcefully, stepping back to allow Tim room to pass into the foyer. He locked the door as soon as Tim had crossed the threshold and demanded that Tim follow him up to his study.

            Tim slipped out of his coat, laid it across the back of the bench set out to allow the less than warmly welcomed guests of the manor to sit and wait for Bruce to attend to them, and then obediently followed Bruce Wayne upstairs.

 

            The study was musty and dark when they reached it – not dusty or anything that could reflect poorly in any way against Alfred, but _stale_ in a way that said Bruce hadn't been spending much time there lately.

            Bruce lowered himself wearily into the chair on the far side of the desk and gestured to the one opposite for Tim – who ignored it. Instead he remained standing, set his briefcase on the edge of the desk, and laid his hands on it with his palms flat and his fingers spread. It was a gesture of good faith, almost – both a demonstration that he did not possess a weapon and a promise that he couldn't acquire one fast enough to get the jump on Bruce if it came to that.

            Bruce remained silent, refusing to ask any kind of telling question that could lead Tim to a conclusion that Bruce wanted to avoid.

 

            Tim ceded the point, having already won the first round by getting Bruce to answer the front door to start with, and broke the silence without prompt, saying, “It would be best if you did not waste any effort trying to deny that you are the man behind Batman's mask.”

            Bruce's dark blue eyes narrowed, just a fraction. Jason would've been able to tell if the reaction was due to fury or fear, but Tim gleaned enough to know that the stress response at least meant he had Bruce's full attention.

            Encouraged, Tim forged onward, “I am not here to pointlessly debate a verified fact. Suffice it to say that I have definite proof of your role in the Crusade. And while the proof is irrefutable, it is dependent on a happenstance of experience rather than a particular mistake on your part – or that of Dick Grayson, Barbara Gordon, or Jas-.”

            Tim fumbled over Jason's name – _choked_ on it, to the point that he couldn’t actually manage to make himself say it out loud.

            Considering the shudder that ran through Bruce at his feeble attempt, Tim felt it did not undermine his point too terribly.

            He coughed to clear his throat and promised, “Your secret is no more exposed than it was before I uncovered my particular proof.”

            Tim took a breath to steel himself for the next part, the part that was the reason behind his flat palms and splayed fingers, the part that could easily be construed to sound like a threat – because it kind of _was_ one.

            “However, your secret may not be safe much longer,” Tim informed him.

            As Bruce's narrowed eyes grew steely and his vague suspicion deepened to Bat-style confirmed distrust, Tim added vehemently, “But I refuse to let that happen. Your secret is at risk right now because you are being reckless and overly aggressive. You _need_ a Robin, for two reasons: first, to keep you in check so that you don’t wind up killing yourself or the criminals you bust – because Gotham _needs_ you and needs you to be a _hero_ – and second, to keep suspicion off of the idea regarding a link between Robin's absence and Jason's –”

            Tim managed to say Jason's name this time, but he still couldn't – possibly never would manage to – say anything explicit about Jason's _death_.

            “Jason wouldn’t want the secret exposed because of him,” Tim insisted, staring down Bruce’s scowl with righteous glare of his own, “Between your public grief as Bruce Wayne and Batman's increasing aggression in the absence of Robin, it will not be long before someone draws the right conclusion and by then it will be too late to cover for it.”

            Bruce continued to scowl in silence for a long moment after Tim finished speaking.

            Then he seemed to deflate as exhaustion swept away what kept his strong front standing.

 

            “Batman will never have another Robin.”

 

            “You _need_ one,” Tim repeated forcefully, sliding his fingers across his briefcase and using his thumbs to click open the clasps. “And I can prove it to you.”

            Bruce barely summoned the attentiveness to arch a skeptical eyebrow as Tim pulled out the first bound packet of arguments within his dossier. He delicately placed the laminated packet of charts, statistics, and written out argumentation in front of Bruce, facing him – encouraging him to read it, daring him to refute it.

            “Batman needs a Robin to keep him in check,” Tim repeated. “As exemplified by Green Arrow in Star City, exclusively being the big scary shadow in the night does not significantly impact crime rates – particularly petty crime. In fact, the only impact of a Dark Knight variety threat on petty crime is that rates marginally _increase_ , due to the assumption that the super hero will be off chasing super villains. Without Robin, you are a vague and mostly empty threat – even Green Arrow has ceded to the point that Star City has improved drastically since the addition of Arsenal to the vigilante team, because the regular people on the street feel that the kid will actually stand up for the little guy instead of simply taking on the big bads.”

 

            Bruce began to flip compulsively, but disinterestedly, through the first packet as Tim reached his conclusion. If Tim knew better, he could say for certain whether or not Bruce actually looked slightly queasy.

            “Batman's threat is not empty,” Bruce said eventually with the painful weight of utter exhaustion in the words. Jason would have been able to tell if the touch of something _else_ Tim heard was actually desperation. A heavy sigh made Tim hesitate to call it that, made him wonder if it was just a bone deep weariness as Bruce added, “And neither is Green Arrow’s.”

 

            “They are, actually,” Tim said decisively, pulling out the second of his packets. “Even when Green Arrow _killed_ the perpetrators he was targeting, the actual impact on the overall criminal enterprises involved was negligible. In fact, the data leads to the conclusion that slightly more than half of the enterprises were _more_ successful than anticipated.”

            Bruce _definitely_ looked slightly sick at Tim’s assertion and he eyed the second packet with a visible flicker of dismay.

            Bruce kept the first packet in his hands, but closed it as he said, “Batman will never have another Robin.”

            Tim ignored the ultimatum in his tone and pulled out the third packet.

            “Batman needs a Robin because, when Batman _has_ Robin, they _do_ impact the crime statics of Gotham – not to mention the overall quality of life, civil approval, and general outlook of the vast majority of Gothamites – and they affect the statistics _significantly._ ”

 

            Bruce sighed, setting the first packet lightly on the desk – gingerly, as if to rush it might startle the other packets into attacking.

 

            “Timothy, this is all very... impressive,” Bruce told him slowly, and even though Tim knew there was a ‘but’ coming, he felt a zing of pride in his ability to formulate an argument.

 

            He kept his spine straight and his shoulders back as Bruce said, “However, it is not a matter of convincing me that Batman needs Robin. I agree with you on that; I do, Tim, truly. But Batman will _never_ have another Robin.”

 

            Tim let the statement fall to silence, waited a beat after the declaration passed.

            Then he took out the fourth packet in his dossier. It was thinner than the others, but it didn’t need to be thick to be potent or compelling.

 

            “Open that,” Tim dictated, after tossing it to land just inches from Bruce’s hand.

 

            Frowning, Bruce cautiously pealed back the cover on the fourth packet.

            The light frown quickly became a vitriolic scowl as the diagram was revealed – as the implications of it processed.

 

            “That is a prototype design for a new Robin suit,” Tim verbalizes – speaking it aloud to make the printed label resonate with Truth. “The next four pages are supply orders and material logs. Look those figures over and tell me how many of these suits I could have already hidden across the city. Even you won’t be able to find and confiscate them all. You will either train me to be your Robin or you will find yourself patrolling with me anyway, because Gotham needs Batman, and Batman needs Robin.”

 

            Bruce let the packet fall from his fingers.

 

            “No.”

 

            Tim sighed.

            “This isn't up to you, Bruce,” he explained. “You don’t get to just say no.”

 

            The look on Bruce’s face was a dark thing, a tragic cloud made of pity, guilt, and anguish all mixed together with a bull-headed entitlement.

            “Gotham’s dark corners are no place for children,” Bruce lamented with a pained and aching edge behind his calm, adding vehemently, “And I will not see another child endangered by a war that can’t be won.”

 

            With another sigh, Tim closed his briefcase.

            Keeping his face smooth and his voice steady, Tim stared Batman down without any trepidation. He would do what had to be done. Because that was the Tim Drake way.

 

            “You don’t seem to understand what’s happening here, Mr. Wayne,” Tim said, picking up his briefcase and stepping back from the desk. “The only thing we are negotiating for is your role in providing for my training. I’m not trying to convince you to _let_ me do anything.”

            He let Bruce absorb the statement before continuing, “I’m presenting you with the facts of the matter as they stand. The only thing that is flexible about the situation is the question of whether you are going to help me help you, or whether you are going to make this a whole lot harder for everyone involved.”

 

            “Timothy, you are not Robin,” Bruce said, voice dropping into a tone of  pedantic authority. “I won’t let you get yourself killed trying to play hero.”

 

            “Then train me.”

 

            “No.”

 

            Tim did not back down.

            “Why not?” he demanded, adding, “Give me one _legitimate_ reason why you won’t train me and I'll leave you alone.”

            Bruce sucked in a forceful breath to match his glare.

            But then he stopped, reeling in his temper and biting down hard on whatever retort his first instinct supplied. “You’re not… athletic,” Bruce gingerly settled on saying, his response delayed and awkward.

 

            Jason would laugh in his face. Tim could see it _so_ clearly, could practically _feel_ the phantom Jason from his breakdown last night shaking with brash mockery.

 

            Tim could hardly pretend to have half as much confidence in his own abilities as Jason naturally radiated, but he straightforwardly refuted, “Which is why I _need_ training, not a reason I shouldn’t get it.”

            “You don’t have the capability to handle the demands of training, let alone the pressures of a real fight,” Bruce countered, his grief for Jason and fear for Tim manifesting as anger – which proved how potent, and how deeply affecting, the anguish was in how quickly and obviously the feelings slipped free of Bruce's tight leash. “You cannot make yourself an athlete simply because you want to be one, beyond the training and self-discipline, there _is_ a significant element of natural talent, a proclivity you do not possess.”

 

            “ _You_ did it,” Tim accused.

 

            “My situation was different,” Bruce said thunderously. “And my nature. I may not have been inclined towards sports as a child, but I demonstrated the capacity for them – the potential to improve quickly and do _well_. You do not, Timothy. You’re too small, too fragile, too weak; and that cannot be overcome by any kind of training or amount of determination. You can’t do it.”

 

            It was an emotional statement, and Tim knew just as well as Jason would have that Bruce was only trying to hurt him to make him give up. Just like Jason, Tim had no intention of letting Bruce just scare him off, but Tim couldn’t muster the fight to shout and storm and forcibly prove Bruce's statement false – because it _wasn’t_ false. Not entirely.

 

            Tim was not an athlete, and he was hardly legitimate Robin material – but that was beside the point at the moment.

 

            “I know I’m not good enough,” Tim admitted easily. “I’m not good enough to even hold a candle to Jason, let alone replace him, and I can’t match Dick's skills in any regard either. I’m not enough, that I'm not good enough to fight or to inspire or to do anything that Robin should, and I _know_ I can’t just fix that. But I can get better.”

 

            “Tim,” Bruce said softly, deflating swiftly from his anger. “You _are_ enough, more than enough. And I admire your determination, and your drive, but my answer is still no.”

 

            Tim waved his words away.

            “It doesn’t matter right now that I’m not good enough. Batman needs a Robin and even a subpar Robin is better than no Robin,” Tim pointed out.

            Bruce’s face remained smooth and stoic, but his dark eyes looked pained.

 

            Tim plowed ahead with his argument, saying with the confidence of data standing irrefutably behind him, “Besides brute athleticism is not a fundamentally required part of Robin's character. The qualities of a Robin that you need right now are someone who knows your secret, someone who won’t hesitate to confront you and won’t back down from telling you when you’re making a mistake, and someone who can make you understand that they need for you to come back at night… and to remind you that your safety and your creed of no killing are both at least as important as your ability to stop criminals.”

            “By that definition, Alfred could be Robin and you wouldn’t have to put yourself in any danger,” Bruce suggested with sardonic furor.

            “Alfred already has a job in the Crusade and that is already too much to ask of him considering how much else he does,” Tim replied flatly. “Besides, with all respect due to Alfred, he somehow fails to make you consciously and proactively aware of your need to keep yourself in check. You need Robin, a real Robin, a _child_ Robin for you to remember that.”

 

            A long moment of tense silence ensued, dramatic and writhing with hurt.

 

            “No, Timothy,” Bruce insists with a heavy resignation, pained and desperate. “You are not Robin, and you never will be.”

 

            Tim stared Bruce down for another long moment.

            “Read through the dissertation, Mr. Wayne,” Tim instructed firmly. “I’ll see you later.”

 

            He didn’t give Bruce the opportunity to respond.

            Instead, he spun on his heel and made his way out of the Manor.

 

            Tim had timed it well. He'd only _just_ made it off the Wayne Manor grounds when Alfred's car appeared at the end of the lane on his return from Gotham proper.

            Not for the first time, Tim wondered if Alfred would support his cause – it was partly to keep Bruce safe, after all. But even if Alfred was entirely on board with Tim's plan, it was still probably best not to add in any extra variables when trying to back Bruce Wayne into a corner – when trying to _bully_ Batman into doing what Tim wanted.

 

            Yeah, the fewer variables involved, the better. Just in case.

 

            Tim made it back to the Drake Estate about an hour before sunset, which meant he had plenty of time to force down something to eat before he started getting ready for the night.

            It wasn’t exactly 4-Star dining, but a peanut butter sandwich would give him enough energy to get through most of the night. Hopefully.

            And he could probably keep it down. Even if it made him a bit queasy.

            Tim wasn’t certain what it would be like tonight – he was glad he got back early enough to eat slowly and to let the food digest a bit before heading out, fearing that a bigger meal might come straight back up if there were to be any grappling involved.

            He had loved it the few times he tried it with Dick and Jason, but those isolated incidents had always been at the end of a night, on a mostly empty stomach. If he was going to have any reason to be grappling from building to building tonight with Batman, Tim was willing to bet it would come up quite early in the evening.

            And happen under much less stable circumstances.

            Like _running_ and _chasing_ and _diving off of rooftops in blind trust that Batman would catch him even if he’s angry_ circumstances.

 

            Once he finished eating, Tim carefully cleaned up his mess and then made his way upstairs to change.

            The Robin suit he'd created was a prototype, so it tragically still felt a far sight more like a Halloween costume than a uniform of flexible full-body armor – especially since the layer closest to his skin was made out of old pajamas. Tim had chosen the pajamas to be the innermost layer specifically for the low friction and cushioning effect of the material's soft cotton weave, but that didn't make it feel any less ridiculous to pull on the sleepwear.

            The next layer was an armortec material created by Drake Industries, modified with skid resistant patches copied from protective gear made for fire fighters and police officers as developed by Wayne Enterprises. There were stretchy, breathable panels worked in as well, around the joints where skid resistant material met the armortec, and to facilitate movement and sweat removal as per the designs of various sports gear developers.

            The top layer was pieced together mostly out of hard armor, a mix of fixed carbon and steel plates, and Kevlar. Most of the top layer was comprised of pieces that had been presents from Selina Kyle – meant both, to get on Bruce Wayne's nerves for having the top-secret gear being regularly stolen, and to bribe Tim into tagging along with her as Catwoman's little Stray.

            He hoped to add a sort of outer skin, perhaps spandex or something, to make the Robin colors show through better, to make him more humanized and recognizable.

            But that could come later and it would be easy enough to repair or replace it if anything happened to it.

 

            The armor was the hardest thing to replace.

 

            But between materials he could purchase from Wayne Tech wholesale, and those he could acquire from Drake Labs, he could at least closely replicate the design with acceptable protective functionality through a few more incarnations…

 

            Which was important.

 

            Because he had lied – well, not exactly _lied_ … but had intentionally arranged for an incorrect assumption to be drawn – when he’d told Bruce that he had a significant number of these prototype suits hidden away.

_Technically,_ he had presented Bruce with a few back dated material orders and then asked him to calculate how many suits he _could_ have hidden across the city. He had never actually said that he had more than three of them _ready_ …

 

            Tim knew that his bluff wouldn’t hold long if he left it at that, so the orders had been genuine purchases. He had simply back dated them to about a month ago. He was overnighting the supplies to a dozen different Drake Industries lab addresses (where the supplies would not seem too unusual and would be utilized eventually if he didn’t come reclaim them) and could have another suit whipped up in about a week if necessary… but he really hoped it wasn’t going to be necessary.

 

            He wasn’t overly optimistic about that possibility.

 

            The most likely result to come of Tim appearing on Batman's patrol while dressed as Robin would be for Batman to drag him to the Cave, confiscate all his gear, and deliver him back to the Drake Estate before going out on patrol alone again.

            Tim's current plan involved allowing that to happen, going to sleep after being deposited back home, and then using the daylight hours to acquire a new Robin suit.

 

            Rinse and repeat until Batman gave up on getting rid of him.

 

            Tim was in this for the long haul, after all. He was _going_ to be Robin whether Batman approved or not, and his approval made very little difference to Tim.

            Whether his effort was 100% focused on getting a new costume ready every day or if it was 100% on training to be the best Robin he could manage, Tim was going to throw _everything_ of himself into this.

 

            Because Robin deserved it.

 

            _Jason_ deserved it.

 

            Deserved to have his legacy as Robin respected; and if his role was going to be filled by a subpar replacement, the least that replacement could do was give it genuine dedication – he might not be good enough, but no one was ever going to be able to say he didn’t try hard enough.

            As soon as Tim was dressed in his prototype Robin suit, he threw a hoodie and sweatpants over it – bundling the cape up and stuffing it awkwardly inside his sleeve.

            Sliding the domino mask into his hoodie's pocket – along with a logo-free drawstring tote made of dully colored, water proof material – Tim gave one last look at his camera and then went downstairs and headed out the door.

 

            The sun had only just disappeared completely over the horizon, and Batman wouldn't begin his patrol for another hour, at least, but Tim had to get a significant head start if he wanted to beat Batman out to the Upper West Side – where the options for Batman's patrol route narrowed to just a few buildings with a reasonable city-surveying height, buildings that were all connected directly with shared walls or separated by gaps Tim could most likely jump.

            The Lower West Side was Tim's best bet for being able to catch Batman in the midst of patrol, and then Tim would be able to chase him for over 12 blocks, most likely without falling to his death. It was the safest spot to chase him, and Tim planned to wait at the narrowest portion of that bottleneck of good options, right by a spot Batman was statistically likely to land on. He just needed to get all the way to the other side of the city before Batman did.

            Tim didn’t need to think about navigating, he knew Gotham too well to get lost along her main boulevards, so to keep his mind off how inadequate he felt trying to replace Jason, how ridiculous he felt biking across Gotham when he’d watched Jason _fly,_ Tim ran through his plan again. He replayed the numbers, calculated it down to confirm and reconfirm that his chosen spot would be the best one.

            He continued to let those thoughts circle once he'd stripped off his sweats, ditched them inside the bag he’d brought, donned his mask, and hidden himself away between the rooftop air conditioner units, waiting for the Bat to arrive.

 

            When the Dark Knight's shadow swept across the roof, Tim almost forgot to move.

 

            He'd spent _years_ training himself to be perfectly still and silent when the Bats were about – especially if they landed closer to him than he’d anticipated.

            Back then he’d been so scared of getting caught – of having them confiscate his camera, destroy his pictures… scared that once they were aware of him they’d be too vigilante careful to allow him to ever catch another shot… scared that his heroes would hate him.

 

            But now he needed to be noticed, needed to make a _statement_ in being noticed.

 

            As Batman surveyed the city from the back of a long-necked gargoyle, Tim shimmied silently up the far side of the roof access structure – giving him the advantage of slightly higher ground – and crept as close to the edge as he could.

            As Tim took a deep, steadying breath, his mind flashed over the things Selina had taught him about confidence, the things he'd picked up from watching Jason bulldoze his way through existence. Tim didn’t have that kind of confidence in most things, but in this…

            He cracked a smile at how easy it was to summon up the grit and grandeur from behind a mask – from behind the _Robin_ mask, in particular – and realized that not only was he in the _right_ trying to get Batman to take him on, he wasn’t afraid of anything in that moment.

 

            “I thought you would've checked my room before you left,” Tim commented, voice low – but booming in the shadows of the rooftop.

 

            Batman didn’t flinch – but Tim never expected him to, he was too good for that.

            Even if Batman were startled by Tim’s voice in the darkness, Tim knew that Batman had likely trained his brain to process audio signatures for both subject identification and to gauge the threat – and to react appropriately on instinct.

            So, Tim was not surprised that Batman did not overtly respond to the announcement of his presence in a way he could see – he was just glad the hand he belatedly spied on one of the batarangs secured on Batman’s utility belt had done nothing more than clench around the weapon, rather than whipping it in Tim's direction.

 

            “The light was on,” Batman says heavily, turning slowly to face Tim.

 

            It didn’t take Tim even half a second to figure out what Batman meant. The light in Tim's bedroom would be on right now – would remain on for approximately 21 to 74 more minutes.

 

            “The lights are all on timers,” Tim explained. “I programed them all to turn on and off in a believable pattern for the average lifestyle of a person of my age and social standing. It has a 45 minute randomized margin of cut-off, and consumes exactly as much electricity as I would if I were home. It even simulates the time I would spend on my computer.”

 

            Batman remained silent, but Tim could _feel_ the stoic absence of a sigh.

 

            “You should go home.”

 

            “There's still six hours of patrol route for you to cover,” Tim declared. “And I’m not going home until you do. Besides, if you trust me enough to go home on my own, traveling all the way across Gotham by myself after midnight, you should trust me enough to stay with you.”

 

            Batman remained still, silent, and utterly unreadable for a long moment before he stated with a bland, authoritative force, “I will take you home.”

            “If you take me home, you’re just going to go back out alone,” Tim accused. “Which means I'll have to chase you down all over again, all alone on foot. The only way you’re getting me to stay home is if you're there to watch me and that means you won't be able to patrol.”

            “It's a quiet night,” Batman said – which Tim took to mean that he was resigned to retiring early for the night.

 

            Tim let his glare deepen.

 

            “I’m not going to let this go,” Tim announced.

 

            Batman remained silent.

 

            “I’m not just going to let you take me home tonight and forget about this. I’ll be out tomorrow. And the next night, and the next. The only way you're going to keep me from patrolling with you is to stop patrolling yourself. And if you do, then I’m just going to patrol without you – because _someone_ has to.”

 

            Still, Batman showed no response.

 

            “And if you really would put the Crusade on hold in order to keep one measly kid from hitting the streets voluntarily when you _know_ you could use the help protecting the kids who _live_ on the streets with the criminals you should be stopping… well, then you’re not the Batman I believed in as a kid,” Tim proclaimed – feeling dramatic and powerful as his cape fluttered in a sharp gust of the chilly Gotham breeze.

 

            “You still _are_ a kid,” Batman countered, exhaustion ringing clear.

 

            “No. I’m not,” Tim retorted. “Right now, I’m Robin.”

 

            If this matter weren’t so serious, Tim would have been all butterflies and mirth.

            Jason would probably be cackling at him.

 

            The confidence Tim had in his own confidence began to erode as Batman remained unmoved. He stood perfectly still and stared up at Tim with his mouth set in a grim line, as his heavy cape fluttered gently around him. Tim stared back.

 

            Batman eventually decided something – well after Tim had lost track of how long they’d been staring at each other in the darkness. He swept an arm out from under his cape and tapped something into the computer embedded in his gauntlet.

 

            “Come here,” Batman demanded.

 

            Tim knew the command was meant for him even though Batman did not lift his eyes from his gauntlet as he spoke. Complying with the immediate obedience expected of Robin, Tim scampered down from the roof access structure and forced his spine to stay straight as he marched over to stand before Batman.

 

            “Where is your bicycle?”

 

            “Under a tarp, behind a dumpster, two blocks east of here,” Tim reported.

 

            Batman lifted his arm, holding out his cape with a gesture that almost looked like invitation. Tim hesitated to step forward until Batman said, “I assume you would not believe I would return if I told you to wait here for me to get back with it.”

 

            “Correct.”

 

            “And you would not believe I would wait for you here if I told you to go get it.”

 

            “Correct.”

 

            “Then we will go together and the Batmobile will find us there,” Batman laid out grimly, his voice low and… defeated in a way Tim didn’t quite recognize, a way he _absolutely_ did not _like_. “If you’re comfortable with it, I can carry you to your bike directly, or if that would make you uncomfortable I can just help you down to street level.”

 

            “Grappling directly is fine,” Tim asserts, cautiously approaching.

 

            Being carried at fourteen was a lot more embarrassing than being carried at twelve, but with Batman’s bulk and body armor to make him feel small and Batman’s cape to hide his face in, Tim was able to allow the Bat to hoist him up without a fuss. Batman didn’t even move like the effort of holding Tim was any kind of exertion.

 

            The brief moments they spent in the air filled Tim with a joyful exhilaration that almost quelled the ache of the black hole of grief inside him – but only almost, and as soon as his feet touched back down on the ground, that grief redoubled into guilt. Tim was not replacing Jason as Robin because he wanted to have fun – or to live out his boyhood fantasies – he was doing it because Batman needed a Robin.

 

            Sober and silent as he retrieved his bike and sweats, Tim forced himself to focus on the fact that this _was_ genuinely necessary. Jason would understand that.

            Tim hadn’t quite convinced himself of that when the Batmobile appeared – rolling in silently with its incredibly powerful electric engine.

 

            As Batman placed Tim’s bike into the trunk space, Tim reminded him, “If you just take me home, I’m gonna be out here again as soon as you are.”

            “We’re not going to your civilian address,” Batman explained gruffly.

            “Then where are you taking me?”

 

            “To the Batcave. I need to see your uniform.”

 

            Tim’s feet froze beneath him, rooting him to the ground.

            He’d planned for this possibility, but it still felt like he’d failed in his goal of _convincing_ Batman to take him on as Robin.

            Now, he was simply going to have to annoy him into allowing it.

            Which, even when it eventually, inevitably succeeded, would not feel like a win.

 

            “If you confiscate my gear I’m just going to dig another suit out of its hidden cache for tomorrow,” Tim warned him.

 

            This time, Batman did sigh aloud.

            He held the Batmobile’s passenger door open for Tim and said, “I’m not going to confiscate your gear.”

            Tim’s eyes narrowed suspiciously at Batman.

            At his look, the vigilante continued, “There are aspects of your training it would be unwise to discuss out in the open, _Robin_.”

 

            Tim’s brain refused to parse the words for a moment, refused to process their meaning, until it was _absolutely_ certain.

            Even then, Tim was reluctant to accept it.

            “You’ll really take me on?”

 

            Batman gave another sigh.

            “I do not appear to have a choice.”

 

            A triumphant smile split Tim’s face. “You don’t,” he said, “But thank you, anyway.”

 

            Batman helped Tim into the Batmobile as he growled under his breath, “Do not _thank_ me for endangering your life and destroying your future.”

 

            The way Batman slammed the door, and the way he remained sullenly silent through the drive to the Batcave, did nothing to squash the giddy triumph in Tim’s chest at the unbridled thrill of a successfully executed plan coming to fruition.

 

            This was a terrible situation, but Tim was _right_ about what needed to happen to make the situation slightly better – to prevent it from getting any worse.

 

            Tim was _right_ and now he had the chance to _prove_ it.

 

* * *

 

*  *  * 

> _He’s still cold – **colder** , even._
> 
> _Dirt and blood coat his face, his fingertips._
> 
> _It hurts again. Everything hurts._
> 
> _But he can’t stop._
> 
> _He’s still in that place that’s **wrong** … the place that’s too tight and too damp and too cold cold cold – down to his bones, icy and aching and all tingly… but he’s also **back**. _
> 
> _Back in the body that he doesn’t quite remember why he left, or how he left._
> 
> _Back in control of the limbs and lungs that keep telling him to **stop** – that keep **screaming** at him that something’s wrong, that **hurt** so bad it nearly makes him leave again… _
> 
> _Nearly makes him dissipate into that nothingness beyond life and metaphor where he’d first sort of woken up._
> 
> _But he won’t give in that easy._
> 
> _He’d fought hard to get back._
> 
> _He doesn’t know when he got back, or how, or where he’s even gotten back **to** exactly, but he’s back and bloody and dirty and he can’t stop._
> 
> _Because he’s choking on his own air._
> 
> _Choking on the heaviness of carbon stuck inside his lungs, suffocating on it because no fresher air can reach him._
> 
> _It’s instinct to survive, but his own special brand of **fight** that makes it happen. And his own brand of triumph when his battered, bloody fingertips break the muddy rain drenched surface._
> 
> _A lungful of fresh air nearly kills him – a shock to his system that has him rolling on his back as he fights with the blurry edges of his vision to keep from blacking out._
> 
> _He doesn’t quite remember how to feel the high of victory, but he still understands the basics of success and he thinks he might be smirking as he drags the last few inches of his aching limbs out of the muddy mess of ground he’s made._
> 
> _The woman who waits for him to claw his way out of the earth is frowning._

 ___________

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it seems like Tim has magically recovered from his grief and all that, don't be fooled.  
> He's actually in an even WORSE head space than last chapter, because he's just shunting all that hurt aside to focus on the mission he's decided to shoulder for himself... yeah, not healthy... but very Bat.
> 
> I'm still mostly focused on Manners, but I think I'm gonna up the posting schedule on this one to match Trading Faces, posting every other week or so. <3


	3. Baseline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim discovers a new kind of normal and gets his first assessment on his road to becoming Robin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it has been so long! Life is crazy sometimes...  
> Anyway, things may be getting better and tomorrow is my birthday, so I think getting back to work and posting a chapter is a great way to kicking things off for a fresh start and a new year!
> 
> On to the Timmy epicness as he passes a test or two from Alfred and faces down a few more challenges from Bruce!  
> _

 

**Chapter 3 – Baseline**

            Getting out of the Batmobile inside the Batcave was a profoundly affecting experience for Tim – even though it wasn’t the first time he’d seen the inside of the Bat’s secret lair, it was still a place of magic and hope and wonder from his boyhood fantasies.

 

            Now, it was also a place of tragedy.

 

            The Cave was darker than last time, the lights dimmer and the shadows stronger. The only thing lit up to full brightness was a fixture set into the raised angle of rock along the pathway that lead up to the main Manor. It was a display case holding Jason's version of the Robin uniform – Tim could recognize it from 16 blocks away in pitch dark, so picking out the details in good lighting from the Cave floor was child’s play.

            The Robin suit in the case was in pristine condition, being that when Jason had run off to Ethiopia, he hadn't gone as Robin – he’d gone a lost little boy looking for his mother, for his _Family_. It looked to Tim like there might be a plaque on the case, possibly some sort of dedication, but he couldn't read it from this angle and certainly not this distance.

            Batman noticed where Tim’s attention had been drawn – didn’t have to turn to know what he was looking at with such grave focus.

            “I will not allow another child to die for their part in my Crusade,” Batman vowed.

            The pained awe on Tim’s face curled into a frown.

            “You may have started this, but you’re not the only one with a dog in this fight,” Tim reprimanded. “It’s not just _your_ cause anymore, and I'm not going to let you pretend it is. You are a _symbol_ and you have to live up to that – and your current recklessness is going to make you a killer sooner rather than later, and get you killed as well.”

            Nothing Tim said could be legitimately refuted, and Batman remained silent until the moment passed.

            Eventually, Batman said, “If I accept the proposal to train you, it will be up to my discretion to decide when you are ready to patrol. You will not leave the Cave in costume prior to earning my approval to do so.”

            “No,” Tim responded firmly, planting his feet and keeping his shoulder back as he reinforced, “The entire point of this is to have Robin going _out_ with Batman.”

            Timothy Jackson Drake knew how to negotiate – knew how to hold a line, to be flexible, but make clear there were things on which he would not compromise.

            “All you will be is a liability,” Batman retorted. From anyone else, it would have been brute cruelty, but from Batman, all Tim heard was cool assessment.

            There was enough truth inside the statement to make the words sting, but Tim already knew he was a pathetic candidate for Robin, so Batman’s comment didn’t even make Tim flinch.

            “I know I can’t help you fight,” Tim admitted openly, “But I refuse to let you become the bad guy because I'm stuck in the Cave. I can be obedient out in the field, and I will defer entirely to your judgement; I can hide on a roof or call the car or whatever you say, but if I am going to be Robin, I have to _be_ Robin.”

            “I can't trust that you will obey me in the field if you won’t obey me now,” Batman countered, his concern valid enough to be taken seriously.

            “In this one regard, I will not stand down: Batman needs a Robin, and they need to go out _together_ on the streets of Gotham,” Tim insists, “I'll listen to anything else. I know I’m not good enough, so I won’t try to prove anything by disobeying in the field. I'll listen, I swear.”

            The hard line of Batman's mouth softens slightly, though Tim can’t hope to interpret the expression from behind the cowl. “Dick and Jason were both natural talents, and they each had substantial training before they came to be in my care, and even they were not allowed on the streets for nearly a year while I trained them,” Batman explained, his voice cold enough to burn if Tim hadn’t known how to hear the ache of grief behind it.

 

            “And even so, they both got hurt, regularly.”

 

            “Because they were so caught up in the mission themselves, in the end-goal of the Crusade, and in trying to prove themselves to you, that they couldn’t submit to the orders you gave,” Tim declared definitively, adding, “I cannot contribute to the Crusade by any means other than supporting your role, and I’m under no delusions about that. _My_ mission is to make Batman be the hero Gotham needs him to be. I have nothing to prove, so I’ll obey, but I have to _be_ there… to make sure you remember.”

 

            They had reached an impasse.

 

            The tension between them made Tim’s pulse pound in his ears, but he knew he had the trump card in this – because if Batman refused, Tim would simply go patrolling by himself, which Bruce _had_ to acknowledge was the more dangerous option.

 

            “Ahem.”

 

            Batman remained still, but Tim felt his attention slide to the figure of Alfred Pennyworth – approaching with a silver tray of food and tea in his hands.

 

            Alfred had announced his presence from far enough away to make Tim able to resist the urge to jump out of his skin at the surprise, but from close enough to be easily heard as he said, “If I may be so bold as to offer a suggestion, perhaps Master Timothy could go out for a brief jaunt through Gotham's skyline with you on the traditionally quieter patrol days, say, Sunday, Tuesday, and Thursday nights? Then he could spend the rest of his nights here training up.”

 

            As he spoke, Alfred set his tray down by the Batcomputer and arranged the treats it was laden with neatly around the workspace of their intended recipient. Clearly, Alfred anticipated that Bruce would be staying up to do more work on a case for quite a while.

            “For now, how about we suspend this discussion for the evening, as Master Timothy has school in the morning and could surely do with something nice to eat before bed,” Alfred suggested – in a way that was somehow both gentle, and yet not at all a _suggestion_.

 

            Even _Batman_ , in full armor, cape, and cowl, caved to _that_ voice.

            Without a beat of protest or hesitation.

 

            With the matter apparently settled, Batman turned away from Tim and made his way over to the Batcomputer – removing his gauntlets as he walked.

            Before Tim could even think to scurry after him to get a glimpse of what he was working on, the warm weight of a hand on his shoulder was steering him towards the Manor.

            Tim got so caught up in the spinning of his head that he missed the instant they drew near to the display case memorializing Jason's Robin uniform. Alfred had steered him well beyond it before Tim’s brain caught up with the movement and realized he wanted to go back and pay his respects – properly, albeit rather late.

            He twisted in Alfred’s hold and strained to look back at the case, but the butler simply continued to usher him along to the elevator. Tim couldn’t quite find his words and struggled to squeak out an explanation before the doors rolled closed. He looked up to see Alfred looking at him with a soft, understanding smile.

            “There will be plenty of time for that later, Master Timothy,” Alfred said softly, confirming Tim’s half formed hypothesis that the butler knew what he’d wanted and had herded him along too quickly to voice it intentionally. “I think it would be best for you to pay your respects at a quieter moment, one that allows you to truly reflect. I believe Master Jason would want that for you – would want you to have time and peace to mourn him, _without_ Bruce and Batman looming over your shoulder quite so literally.”

            Tim nodded in return, his words lost to the swirl of chaotic blackness that was the riot of feelings and all too human emotions he had pushed aside when he'd come to the conclusion that he needed to step up as Robin. He wasn’t ready to face that swirl just yet, and he _certainly_ didn’t want to show Batman how right he was about Tim's inadequacies as a Robin candidate.

            Not when he was so close to convincing Bruce that Batman _needed_ him – well, needed Robin, whose role anyone could fill… but Tim knew _he_ was best for Batman right now … because he understood exactly why Batman needed a Robin with him, and he could force Bruce to take that need seriously.

 

            Alfred guided him through the Manor to the kitchen and sets a steaming bowl of something savory and rice-based in front of him – which he ate under the careful watch of Alfred's warm and stern expression until all the food slowly disappeared.

            It had somehow been perfectly portioned, because he only felt the slightest bit queasy at the feeling of fullness. Mostly the sensation of a hot meal in his stomach made him feel sleepy – all the stress and tension draining away and allowing overdue exhaustion of the past few weeks to creep up on him all at once.

            When he yawned after clearing out his bowl, Alfred smiled and said softly, “Alright, Master Timothy, let’s get you up to bed, now.”

            Tim nodded and started to make for the front door, but Alfred deftly steered him toward the stairs. “I can go home, Alfred,” Tim promises. “It's fine. I don’t have to be a bother here.”

            “It most certainly is _not_ fine, Master Timothy,” Alfred chided, shepherding Tim up the stairs. “I’ll not have you go back to that big empty mansion to be all alone when we have a perfectly good bedroom for you right here. It’s no bother at all. Frankly, I would be more bothered to see you head to the Drake Estate this evening than I am to have you remain here.”

            Tim was given no choice but to submit to the logic and insistent tone of the butler's arguments and shortly found himself in one of Wayne Manor’s third story bedrooms. A set of soft black pajamas in exactly his size had been set at the foot of the bed and Tim changed into them without hesitation before curling up in the massive softness of the bed.

 

            He was asleep before he was even settled.

 

            It was a deep sleep, restorative and dreamless. It was exactly what he needed.

 

            Tim woke the next morning at his usual time – well, his usual time prior to Jason's death – and made it downstairs by 6am.

            He had found a uniform for his school laid out on the dresser of the guest room Alfred had provided for him and had put it on with only the slightest touch of hesitation, seeing as he'd been left with no other clothing options available – his Robin suit had been removed during the night, presumably at the same time the uniform had been delivered.

            The suit’s absence was unsurprising. He’d hoped that Bruce had come to accept the fact that he was _going_ to be Robin, but Tim would be lying if he said he’d trusted that he’d gotten his point across solidly enough to have reason to believe Bruce would simply accept him.

            Tim intended to slip back to his own home without disturbing Bruce or Alfred, but before he realized he'd even hit the first floor landing, the delicious smell of coffee had turned his feet toward the Wayne kitchen.

            A mug of the life-giving concoction appeared before him and he mumbled a bleary ‘ _thank you_ ’ as he raised it to inhale deeply. He downed the piping hot drink black, getting halfway through the first cup before he came up again for air. A pot appeared in Alfred's hands to provide an immediate refill.

            Tim thanked him again as he was herded to a place at the island. A swirl of guilt slid down his throat with the caffeinated elixir as a petite omelet was set before him.

            “I don’t need breakfast, Alfred,” Tim managed – or mostly managed to enunciate around his yawn. Tim didn’t know when Alfred had gone to bed, but it had to have been late enough to make it painfully obvious that he’d gotten up to meet Tim in the kitchen with very little time to rest – even less considering that he’d gotten up early enough to make Tim breakfast.

            “Nonsense,” the butler told him. “You're a growing boy, and if you’re going to grow up strong and healthy, you need proper nutrition. I made it just for you, targeting the calcium and protein deficiencies I sense in your current diet.”

            After that, Tim felt guilty for _not_ eating and tried to pick at the food. It was just egg and a little cheese and some mushrooms, nothing too heavy, and yet he struggled to force more than a few bites down. Breakfast had never been his forte – food didn’t usually start to sit well in his stomach until after eleven.

            Sympathetic, Alfred said softly, “If you don’t feel up to finishing your breakfast, that is perfectly alright. I just worry that you are in need of far more healthy calories than you've allowed yourself in quite some time – particularly if you earnestly intend to see through this notion of taking up the Robin mantle.”

            Tim used his fork to push a mushroom around his plate. “You don’t agree that I should do it,” he stated, a morose certainty staining his tone.

            “I do not _disagree_ with you,” Alfred promised immediately. “You may be right about what Master Bruce needs, and you have certainly presented yourself well as a candidate. I merely wish it were not the case that someone so young and kind as yourself must be tasked with something so harrowing. Particularly after losing Master Jason as we did… I cannot say I am overly enthused by your determination.”

            Tim held very still, unsure of the appropriate response to give when it was clear that such calm and steadiness while discussing Jason was difficult to manage. He was unbearably grateful for the butler's honesty – and for the willing and accepting support that Alfred was showing him.

            Tim was grateful, but uncertain as to the proper way to react – to relay his appreciation without coming across as blithe or ingenuine…

            While Tim struggled, Alfred’s attention had drifted out the wide window that was filling the kitchen with the golden glow of morning light. Tim didn’t realize the shift until Alfred drew his attention by asking, “Would you like to visit him this morning? There’s still a bit of time available if you should like to see him before we have to get you off to school.”

            Gaze following Alfred’s, even though Tim didn’t need to look to know that the butler was looking towards the grave he was referencing – was offering to allow Tim to _visit_ – Tim swallowed hard and felt his chest tighten.

 

            He found he was suddenly intensely grateful that Alfred had hurried him passed the display case with Jason’s uniform in it last night.

            If he were to visit a memorial now – if he were to directly confront _that_ aspect of the reality framework in which he needed to operate – Tim would fall apart.

            And he could _not_ afford to fall apart.

            Last night he'd glimpsed the edge of that blackness, of the swirl of something hurting and human and too hard to handle, and he glimpsed it again now – just the edge, just the bright glow of an accretion disk around a black hole, just enough to let him know it was there waiting for him to get too close until he fell irrevocably in…

            “I… I d-don't… I can't… Not… not yet,” Tim forced out. He couldn’t quite manage to tack on a ‘ _maybe later_ ’. Because it would be _maybe_ later; _maybe_ , once he wasn’t quite so pathetic.

_Maybe_ , once he'd actually managed to do some good as Robin and he could stand before Jason in his own costume without having shamed the Robin name.

            Maybe _then_ he could visit… could somehow face Jason's… _grave_.

            Or maybe not.

            Maybe Tim would never be able to face him. Face _it_ , and pretend it was still _him_.

            “I understand perfectly, Master Timothy,” Alfred told him, and somehow, Tim felt the old butler truly _did_ understand. “And I think Master Jason would understand, as well.”

 

            Tim wasn't so sure about that.

 

            Tim was fairly confident in the thought that Jason would call him a coward, would snicker and snipe that he was being spineless. Because he was – and Jason never missed something so obvious, and never failed to snark at it when he _did_ see it.

            “Well then, let's get you off to school, now,” Alfred segued, “I have already taken the liberty of informing your teachers that you would be returning today.”

            Tim nodded.

            He latched onto the perfunctory tone, fixed himself to the ease of doing what needed to be done. He accepted the back pack that was presented to him – _his_ back pack, with all the books and snacks and papers he'd left in it just as he'd left them – and followed Alfred to the Wayne Foyer. The butler bundled him up in a coat that was only slightly too warm for the inexplicably mild May morning and guided him out the car.

            The drive to Tim's school was swift and silent – the only words spoken as Alfred pulled right up to the school's steps. “I shall return to pick you up at 3 o'clock, precisely.”

            Tim nodded his acceptance and turned to face the first day of school he’d suffered through since Jason hadn’t come back from Ethiopia.

            It wasn’t nearly as bad as it could have been.

            He still understood the material – while he was no longer leagues ahead of his classmates, he was still able to keep up with them perfectly fine. Tim wasn’t sure what Alfred had said to the administration to excuse his long absence and his less than revitalized return, but whatever it was worked. No one bat an eye or asked him any hard questions or made him speak at all, really.

            Tim managed to make it through a day of classes no worse for wear than if he'd simply continued his vigil at Coventry Gardens Cemetery.

            Part of what granted him such mental fortitude was knowing that Alfred would be coming back for him as soon as class was over. Knowing that he would be returning to Wayne Manor to continue with his plan of forcing Batman to accept a new Robin.

            Tim wasn’t actually 100% confident that Alfred would be taking him back to Wayne Manor – as opposed to simply dropping him at the Drake Estate – but he felt the odds were in his favor. He had at least convinced Alfred that he needed to become Robin – and with Alfred convinced, the battle against Bruce was as good as won.

            So, it was only the slightest niggle of worry with which Tim approached the Wayne town car after school let out – he did not know where the prototype Robin suit he’d created and worn last night had gotten to, and he didn’t know if he would have to scramble to put another one together because Bruce was still refusing to accept him.

             Alfred's greeting was warm and friendly, without being invasive or requiring much of a response from Tim – which was fortunate as he could barely focus enough to get into the car without tripping over his feet. The drive – back to Wayne Manor, much to Tim's relief – was as swift and silent as the one that morning.

            Alfred brought Tim into Wayne Manor via the regular garage and shepherded him into an open, inviting library-like parlor – got him set up in a comfy seat with a hearty snack and his homework all laid out on a table where he could reach everything comfortably.

            Most of the work Tim had missed while he'd simply been too shattered to bother had been forgiven, but there was still a good pile of assignments to catch up on. While Tim was working, Alfred bustled off to some place elsewhere in the Manor. Every so often, Tim could hear the echoes of his strides or the occasional shuffle of large or heavy objects – noise likely produced with the direct intention of having him hear it and know that Alfred was nearby, should anything come up.

            Tim was both grateful and unnerved by the noise – at home, the house was always silent in a way that no amount of music or background television or white noise could mollify. It was nice to be in a house where he wasn’t alone, even as it was strange. Tim managed to stop jumping at every sound after about an hour; and after just less than three hours, he'd reached a point where he had almost caught up to his classmates.

            He was just about to crack open the last major assignment he had of make up work when Alfred appeared to tell him that dinner was ready.

            Obediently, Tim rose from his seat and followed Alfred into the dining room – where Bruce Wayne was already taking his own seat. Tim stuttered in his steps as he realized he and Bruce would be eating _together_ – something almost unheard of in the Drake household outside of important parties and dinner meetings – and his feet stumbled again when he realized the elegant meal that had been laid out was only arranged for two.

            Alfred would not be eating with them.

            Tim tucked himself cautiously into his chair and eyed the door with a shuttered pleading as Alfred vanished into the kitchen and did not return.

            “How was school?”

            Tim looked away from the closed door to blink at Bruce – who was starting in on his meal without hesitation.

            “It was fine,” Tim replied cautiously.

            Equally cautiously, Tim examined the food before him: some sort of salmon-based salad dish, with a mushroom soup and garlic bread and some sort of fruity canapés for sides.

            It was a _lot_ of food.

            Especially after the snack he'd eaten while doing his homework.

            Honestly, he hadn’t really figured there would be dinner to worry about.

            Tim had kind of assumed that he would be doing his homework until Bruce arrived home and transitioned directly into being Batman. Or something else, but along those lines. He was _not_ anticipating a sit-down dinner – not with Bruce or with Batman, or anyone at all.

            Tim began to poke at his food – attempting to strategize a means of consuming at least a good portion of it – while Bruce observed him.

            The weight of critical eyes on him was nothing terribly new to Tim, even if those eyes were now Batman's instead of his parents’ and Tim kept his focus on the food. The salad was actually delicious, and light enough to make Tim think he could probably force more than half of it down if he were pressed to – make it look like he'd nearly cleared the plate.

            The bread would be harder, but the exact variety of soup provided was one of the few where it was socially permissible to dip bread – even at formal affairs, provided he could manage to avoid dripping on himself.

            Which he certainly _could_ manage – If it meant he could make it seem more like he’d cleared his plate by doing so. The canapés were a lost cause.

            Plan set, Tim endeavored to take it slow and enjoy the tastes across his tongue while his stomach was not putting up a riot of protest. He also knew that he would need to stop eating before politeness would consider it wholly appropriate, because he would need to be able to run around on patrol tonight, but Tim still felt compelled to clear his plate as much as possible.

 

            “Tim, is something wrong?”

 

            _Everything._ “Nothing in particular, assuming you still recognize the need for you to accept and train me as Robin,” Tim declared. _Jason is gone._

 

            The fact that Tim needed to step up and force Batman to accept him as Robin was a terrible thing – was a sign that nothing would ever be truly right with the world again. But considering how _that_ was Tim's new normal – and Bruce _seemed_ to be accepting him – nothing at all was wrong. Or even amiss.

 

            Bruce was still staring at him, with that considering, evaluative weight in his gaze. “You just seem quiet,” Bruce commented.

            In comparison to Jason, Tim supposed he _would_ seem rather excessively disinclined to conversation. As opposed to Dick, too, Tim could easily seem too-quiet, possibly even downright morose. Bruce would likely have had little to no experience with a child who was not a chatterbox – at least, when at ease.

            Dick would have been a shy, sad child when Bruce first took him in – but only while the loss of his parents and the disquiet of having nowhere to belong plagued him to the point of active distress. And Jason would’ve been near silent in the first few weeks – while his suspicions were too nebulous and vitriolic to give words any kind of shape.

            But after they’d settled, after they reached a point of comfort where they could more or less be accurately called ‘well adjusted’ … silence would’ve been rare from either of them. It would have meant a specific worry or concern was causing acute distress.

            That was not so with Tim.

            And Bruce – if he had even managed to recognize that fact yet – did not quite know how to handle it. Could not turn off that fretting concern response he’d consciously developed in learning how to care for his adoptive sons.

 

            Tim took another bite of his salad and held Bruce's stare, acutely aware that Bruce had not technically confirmed his acceptance yet – challenging him to say that Tim’s move to take on the position of Robin was anything but a done deal.

            Bruce maintained his stare and Tim ensured absolutely that he did not back down first.

 

            Eventually, Bruce sighed. “If we are going to do this, there will be rules for you to follow.”

 

            “As could only be expected.”

 

            “You will have to go to school, exactly as you had before all of this,” Bruce explained pedantically. When Tim nodded, he added, “And you'll have to maintain your current GPA.”

            “A 4.0 is neither difficult to achieve, nor trying to maintain, and would be expected of me regardless,” Tim pointed out.

 

            A muscle contracts in Bruce's neck.

 

            Tim wouldn’t have caught it unless he'd been looking for it – a little tick he and Jason had in common, that showed distress without any pinching at their eyes. Tim had thought it would be upsetting to Bruce to find that he had already anticipated many of his rules and planned accordingly – but this doesn’t read quite right… there _was_ the little not-swallow of almost-grit teeth… but there was also something tight around his cheeks – according to his studies on human body language, it reflected a conscious decision to avoid projecting _sadness_.

            Tim couldn’t interpret it beyond that at the moment – but that he could catch that much at all gave him hope to puzzle out a more accurate picture of Bruce's emotional displays.

            Jason had frequently complained that the man was a brick wall sometimes, blank even to Jason's keen eyes. Tim didn’t believe he would ever be better at reading Bruce than Jason, but he _had_ been stalking the man for half his life now and could at least be able to interpret most of what he did see – use what he knew of Bruce’s back story to explain new emotional responses.

            While Tim mused about his continued – but improving – deficiency in reading Bruce, the man in question plowed ahead to explain his next rule, saying, “You will only patrol for three hours, three days a week, and you will obey me without question while we are out.”

            Tim nodded.

            He chafed at the restricted time frame, but for now it would have to do. Until he was less pathetic, until he was strong enough to actually _do_ something worthy of the Robin name while he was in the costume.

            “On nights we patrol, you will stay at Wayne Manor, for the time being,” Bruce stated – that tick of sadness and distress showing again.

 

            ‘ _For the time being_ ’ likely meant while Tim’s parents were out of the country.

 

            Tim nodded.

 

            That was a bridge to be crossed when they got to it. Which wouldn’t be happening for at least another six weeks. So, Tim had little room to concern himself with it, currently.

 

            “On the days you do not patrol, you will work through a very specific, targeted workout routine to train skills that you will need,” Bruce explained. “A regimen that I will be drawing up later this evening, once you provide some starting point data.”

 

            Resigned to the fact that this was going to be mortifying, that it was going to be a disgrace to the Robin name and would be irreparable to the Robin reputation were he allowed to do it in costume, Tim nodded once more. He’d known that Batman would need to gauge where he was at in order to make a plan for him to improve, but that didn’t stop the anxious roil in his stomach from rearing up.

 

            Tim set his fork down and said, “I’m ready.”

 

            “Aren’t you going to finish your dinner?”

 

            Tim frowned. It was ill-advised at best to have a strenuous workout immediately after a heavy meal – yet another reason he’d never anticipated the need to worry about dinner – and there was no chance that _Batman_ didn’t know that.

 

            “Before we have you establish baseline numbers, I want to go over your prototype for the new Robin suit,” Bruce explained. “The time that will take should be adequate to allow the food to settle, should you still be hungry.”

            Tim nodded and resumed picking at his meal, though it suddenly seemed much harder to force it down. After having been given a clear reason to stop, his stomach had decided on its own that none of the previous reasoning in favor of eating applied any longer. It was already registering an uncomfortable stretch of fullness.

            It wasn’t long after Tim resumed eating that he had to stop – something between his usual difficulties with food and his anxieties over his potential baseline results rendering his stomach completely uncooperative.

            Tim managed to disguise it for the most part – taking reasonable bites very carefully when he knew Bruce could see, and taking absolutely tiny ones when he was only in Bruce's periphery. But even doing that only managed to drag out his ability to stomach more food by about fifteen minutes.

 

            Fortunately, it was long enough for Bruce to finish and for Alfred to appear again – this time with a serving cart to sweep up all the dirty dishes and leftovers.

 

            Alfred promptly cleared the table, with such ease and efficiency that Tim didn’t even register that he should possibly offer to help until after it was too late, and then Bruce was standing – guiding him over to the massive grandfather clock that his the entrance to the Cave.

            Bruce did not let him see the mechanism that made the clock swing open, or that which called the elevator, or the code that directed it to descend into the secret sub-basement of the Cave's uppermost reaches – but all of that was to be expected. Tim wouldn’t have needed to know that to get into the Cave anyway. It would be much easier for him to hack a vehicle recognition code than to get inside through a heavily secured door.

            Regardless, Bruce led Tim down to the Cave – walking quickly, but steadily in a way that disguised how he didn’t look at the case with Jason's Robin uniform inside it. Tim only noticed that Bruce avoided it because he was staring at Bruce's back specifically to keep his own eyes off the very same case.

            Bruce didn’t pause or turn to check that Tim was keeping up until he’s made it to a work bench tucked into an alcove halfway down to the Cave floor – an alcove clearly outfitted to support the repair and maintenance of armor.

 

            His Robin suit prototype was laid out across the main table.

 

            “I want you to explain the changes you made to the original design and your explicit reasoning behind why you made them,” Bruce said, voice collected with a quiet, focused intensity that he was clearly trying to temper.

            Tim latched onto the focus, mirrored it.

            “Well, the most obvious change are the pants and the boots,” Tim pointed out. “Dick required the freedom of movement that came with bare legs or the armortec tights he wore later, but Jason's style of fighting was very different. His ankles needed support more than flexibility and he kept sliding around to avoid blows or to smooth a landing so he needed something tougher than basic armortec fabric to keep from getting scraped up.”

            Tim looked up and found Bruce nodding, so he turned back down to run his fingers over the outer fabric of the pants he’d designed. “These pants are made with a microfiber mesh of steel loops – basically very fluid, lightweight chainmail – over a layer of silk that contacts the skin. I didn’t get a chance to consult with Jason on what he would actually _want_ out of a boot, so right now they're just standard steel toed work boots that are double thick leather and lace all the way up the calves.”

            Bruce was quiet for a moment, considering. Most of his attention was on evaluating Tim's reasoning but a slide of it couldn't avoid being diverted to why he _had_ reasoning at all.

            “You seem to know quite a lot about Dick and Jason's fighting styles.”

            “I know a lot about yours too,” Tim retorted easily. “I’ve been watching you for just more than eight years now, and I’m a quick study.”

            There was a fight brewing beneath the surface here, Tim could feel the conflicting currents of it heating up. The questions of whether Dick and Jason knew, of why they did or didn't, why they didn't _say_ anything about it, were there lurking in the shadows – the question of _does it even matter_ stalking close behind, but not quite close enough to avert a blow up.

            Tim helped decide the issue, by plowing onward with his dissection of his changes to the Robin uniform before Bruce's tired half-sigh could finish. “The next most drastic change is in the cape – I made it bigger by about ten percent and added tension react supports to allow it to fan out and provide a more effective air foil for the hard landings both Dick and Jason seemed unfortunately prone to taking.”

            Bruce nodded, reaching out to handle the cloth himself to better examine the pliant nature of the rod structures while they were not being pulled to tension.

            And on it went until Tim had explained every changed he'd made and why he'd done so – and elaborated cautiously on what he felt should be done further now that the costume was meant for him rather than for Jason.

            When he’d finished, Tim found he couldn’t look up to see what Bruce thought about any of his designs or alterations. Instead, he kept his gaze firmly fixed on the silky black fabric of his cape's under layer.

            “I will see if I can have the appropriate adjustments made, and sized to fit you properly, by Thursday,” Bruce sighed after a long moment born of internalized debate.

            Still a little shell-shocked that his plan had worked well enough to accomplish the primary goal, and that Batman was genuinely working to make _Tim_ his new Robin, Tim faltered a beat before saying, “I would greatly appreciate the effort.”

            Bruce let a long look skim over Tim – he could feel the weight of the attention and peeked up twice to see that Bruce's stare was unwavering.

            It made something in him squirm a little and he couldn’t quite tell why.

            He couldn’t quite tell what about Bruce's stoic expression seemed _pained_ or what he was thinking about exactly to prompt it.

 

            After only a short while longer – just before the silence stretched into truly awkward territory – Bruce suggested gruffly that they head down to the main Cave floor and begin establishing a base for Tim's performance abilities as Robin.

            They would not be using weights or working any weapons or targets today.

            This was an assessment exclusively for basic physical fitness – pushups, sit ups, pull ups, squats, and a mile run on a treadmill. _And_ a time trial through the gauntlet of an obstacle course – set to a beginner's parameters, but still terrifyingly difficult in Tim's eyes.

 

            He did not delude himself for an instant into hoping that it might not go as poorly as he feared it would.

 

            Tim performed terribly. _Shamefully_.

            He was perversely glad that Jason was not around to see him flounder – to witness him disgrace the Robin name – though he was certain that his pathetic pretense at being Robin was making Jason roll right over in his grave.

 

            Tim would never more grateful for Bruce's infuriatingly persistent stoicism than he was immediately after establishing his baseline.

            The only bright side Tim could pretend into existence was that at least the bar for marked progress had been set exceedingly low.

            Without prompt, Tim collected his bike from the trunk of the Batmobile as soon as all the data had been logged. He kept his eyes on his shoes as he walked the out to the end of the concealed driveway that pointed southwest towards his own house – only looking up once he’d reached the artificial stone barrier that kept the drive hidden to locate and press the button that would open the gate briefly and allow him to exit. Once out in the chill of the open air of 3am in Bristol, Tim mounted his bike and headed home.

 

            He forced himself to take a long, hot shower and then collapsed into bed knowing that he was pathetic and useless, but at least he could start on correcting that tragedy after school tomorrow. The only thing that would be truly sore in the morning would be his ego.

 

 

*  *  *

_It's cold. So cold._

_Everything is cold._

_The swirl of air around him that turns his breath to puffs of ice crystals. The steel table beneath the bare skin of his scarred back. The countless sum of needles being stuck beneath his skin._

_Everything around him is cold._

_Everything **inside** him is cold._

_He is alive and yet not – at least according to the woman with the angry eyes and the swarm of groveling white-coated, black-masked medics she reigns over. He is more alive than he should be, less alive than he was… less alive than he could be once again._

_He reacts on instinct. His training and experience so deeply ingrained that even without a fully conscious mind to guide his body he can disable most attackers with ease. He can’t follow directions, can’t be told to attack first – but even when facing elite antagonists he keeps his feet beneath him and forces foes to yield quickly._

_The woman is intrigued._

_Her eyes are angrier than ever as she looks at him, but there is a smile on her lips._

_She can **save** him, she promises, can make him more than what he once was, far more – can bring him up to exhibiting his **full** potential._

_Potential that his previous mentor never saw, never valued, never bothered to embrace._

_He is unavenged, unmourned, and already forgotten by that mentor – who is already carrying on with his usual activities as if life were going on as it normally did. As if he hadn’t **died** as collateral damage in a war he’d only joined to make his mentor proud._

_There is anger in him at that thought._

_Raging fury._

_She can help him get **revenge**._

_The idea is intoxicating. The fury in him **burns** at it._

_The fire is warm as it burns inside him and he embraces that sensation eagerly._

_Chasing out the chill._

___________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, life is crazy, so I'm not sure when I'll be able to post next, but I definitely will be continuing this story (and the whole fic saga I'm working on for JayTim)!
> 
> Thanks so much for reading and commenting and being generally awesome humans!


	4. Groundwork

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim begins his training - and begins digging into independent research to help him accelerate the process.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With Manners successfully finished off, I should be able to focus more on posting this story (and Trading Faces) more frequently!
> 
> The only warning I have for this chapter is that Tim is still in a terrible, self-deprecating mindset, and the choices he makes and the beliefs he holds are NOT HEALTHY.
> 
> (And his mindset is only going to get worse here for a pretty good long while...)  
> _

 

**Chapter 4 – Groundwork**

 

            Getting himself out of bed at six in the morning was not as hard for Tim as it could have been – as it frequently _had_ been when he’d stayed out until at least four chasing down Batman and Robin. With Bruce having gotten Tim to finish setting up his baseline numbers for the basic physical fitness aspects required to be a reasonably functional Robin before ten o’clock, Tim had gotten home – had gotten to _sleep_ – before midnight.

            It meant that he was more awake during class than he had been in a very long time, than he had been in _years_ – which unfortunately meant he wound up spending the day very bored. It did give him a chance to finish all of his make-up work and get a substantial head start on the work he would need to finish out the year. It even allowed him to begin research on how to transition his schooling to a more flexible-schedule, independent study based curriculum.

            Tim had three more years of high school in front of him before he could apply for colleges without having a fuss raised around it, and it would be irksome to have to attend classes exactly as per his previous usual. Tim knew that Bruce would insist upon it – enforce some measure of normality. He had done the same for both Dick and Jason.

            Bruce would probably be even more insistent on it with Tim – as part of a low key campaign to make Tim give up on his designs of being Robin without Bruce having to directly forbid it. Because if Bruce did ban him from the post, Tim had already proven that he would simply refuse to heed the order.

            That didn’t bother Tim in the slightest.

            He knew it seemed overwhelmingly obvious that he wouldn’t be able to hack it as Robin – or to maintain a normal front against the outside world while he flailed under the rigors of training and midnight criminal investigations.

            But Tim knew he could do it.

            He _had_ to do it, so he would.

            And Tim had been manipulating his educational schedule for the last five years at least, to make him seem bright and desirable to colleges without making him a prodigy, so doing so again would hardly be a challenge. He didn’t need to bother with a completely regular course schedule – and Gotham Academy Prep was prestigious and affluent enough to understand the need for flexibility in the lives of the super rich.

            Tim simply needed to know what documents he needed to forge signatures on and what hoops needed to be jumped through in order to make it work the way he wanted.

 

            All in all, despite the school day being rather boring, it was tremendously productive.

 

            Tim was unsurprised to find that Alfred was not waiting for him out front of the school and he made his way back to the Drake Estate without wondering at his absence.

            In the comfort of his own bedroom, Tim finagled the rest of what he needed to have ready for his schooling system to be altered so he wouldn’t be expected to attend classes until at least 10am each morning.

            Unfortunately, it was already too late in the year to allow for a schedule adjustment or an accelerated program to allow for shortened hours due inside the classroom _this_ year – but he did manage to sign himself up for a summer self-study course that would allow for his altered program to begin seamlessly in September. He only had another few weeks left before the year ended in mid June, and this period was almost exclusively devoted to testing – which Tim could conquer easily – so the schedule was more flexible and so was the day to day class time.

            He could easily get through the next few weeks and after that, he’d have an easy run.

            Tim made himself a light snack after securing that and spent the last of the time between his arrival home from school and the onset of evening contemplating how and when exactly he should contact Mrs. Simz to resume the duties that his parents are still paying her for. If they returned home to find that she was not performing those duties, no matter how many emails and signed amendments to her contract regarding a paid period of leave, she would face the full force of the devastating Drake legal team in attack mode.

            As the sun began to turn the world to a sluice of shadows and sparkle, Tim concluded that he'd have to contact her later this week and ask her to resume the following week.

            Satisfied with that plan, Tim got dressed in fitted but flexible workout gear he’d never actually used before. Then he threw a set of sweats on over it to keep him warm in the chill of an early May evening and set out for Wayne Manor on his bike.

            Aware of the interest the general public has always maintained for reclusive billionaires, Tim kept an eye out for paparazzi as he pedaled up the side path through the wild parts of the Drake Estate and came around the low hills of the neatly maintained Wayne Front Park.

            Jason had been able to vault over the low stone wall between their houses, but with his bike Tim preferred to duck between the stone wall the tall, skinny evergreens that lined the main driveway. It was closer to the main road than Tim would have liked to get had he seen any reporter’s lurking about, but it was easier than following the wall further back to where the hidden culvert let out from the Batcave.

            Hidden culverts were not exactly known for having door bells.

            And while he may eventually earn the right to have possess a device capable of opening the secret doors from the outside, right now… he was required to directly ask permission each time he wanted to gain access.

            Side doors and staff entrances to main manor houses, on the other hand, routinely had door bells – and were usually stationed at inconspicuous angles that could hide the comings and goings through them from anyone standing at the main gate.

            Alfred answered the door before the bell had even faded to echoes.

            “Welcome back, Master Timothy.”

            “Good evening, Alfred,” Tim returned, suddenly feeling butterflies flitting anxiously in his stomach. “Is Bruce still here?”

            _Or has he left already?_

            Batman would be patrolling without Tim tonight, as per their agreement. Tim wasn't so simple minded as to think Bruce would truly wait for him to arrive before heading out, but he'd hoped to time it so that his commute could be made under cover of dusk and yet arrive early enough to at least _greet_ the man he was forcing to accommodate him.

            Before Tim’s thoughts could spiral too far out of control the old butler assured him, “You are welcome here anytime, day or night. I hope you know that, Master Timothy.”

            Tim ducked a nod – feeling inexplicably, but distinctly chastised by the stern warmth that swirled within Alfred's tone.

            As Alfred stepped back to invite Tim inside he went on, “Master Bruce is already downstairs, preparing a space  for the rigors of your training.”

            Tim followed Alfred silently through the Manor, to the clock, and down to the main Cave floor – again keeping his eyes firmly on his escort's back in order to keep them off the display case with Jason's uniform.

            _Soon_.

            He _would_ visit him properly, eventually.

            Tim fully intended to pay his due respects.

_Soon_ , but not yet.

            Alfred makes no comment about Tim’s blatant avoidance of the case, and he led Tim down to where Bruce was working through a pattern of warm up stretches over a padded square of flooring. It was one of the sparring arenas arranged around the Cave, one of the smaller ones – better lit and more cushioned. Most importantly, it was surrounded by a carefully arranged camera monitoring system to ensure that proper form was maintained without the advantage of mirrors and to make tracking progress a straightforward, easy process.

            It was also an area within easy view of the Batcomputer, but not so close that the occasional glance from the Control Seat’s occupant would be conspicuous or smothering.

            For that, Tim was extremely grateful.

            He was a disaster of a Robin.

            It was bad enough that he had to watch his progress be recorded and _know_ that Bruce would be reviewing it in detail later, once he was out of the room. To have his struggles _watched_ directly as he worked to make himself into something adequate to bear the cape… Tim suppressed a shudder at the thought, and then forced the thought away altogether.

            Forced away any thought that might distract him from the goal.

 

            Bruce gave a grim smile when he saw Tim and Alfred heading over. He rose to his feet and came to meet them at the edge of the padded area.

            “The most important thing to remember in this line of work is to always keep your muscles as warm and stretched and limber as possible,” Bruce said, foregoing all the potential awkwardness of small talk.

            Tim gave a nod, grateful for the focus on the mission.

            “Strength comes from muscular control, which in turn comes from flexibility, which itself is facilitated by balance and the range of acute control developed alongside it. Balance, therefore, is the most important skill you will ever acquire – every other skill you may learn builds off of this one fundamental element of your training,” Bruce explained.

            Tim gave another nod. The reasoning was sound as far as Tim could tell.

            He had not yet done much research on martial arts – the practice of its teachings or the theory behind any of it. Such was an oversight he intended to correct as soon as possible – likely in the morning, while he spent another seven hours stuck in school.

            For now, he pushed the thought to the back of his mind and focused on the task at hand as Bruce instructed him to take off his shoes and socks, and then step onto the mats.

            Tim did as he was told.

            “Now, watch what I do and follow the movements yourself, we’ll work through it together a few times tonight before I head out,” Bruce said, beginning to slowly move his limbs through a pattern that looked something like Tai Chi.

            Again, the niggle of insufficient data and the itch to do more research tugged at Tim’s awareness, but Tim was already more disciplined than to allow it to distract him from absorbing the lesson Bruce was teaching him.

            He _needed_ to become Robin. To save Bruce. To save Gotham.

            Because that’s what Jason wanted.

            That’s what Jason had died for – indirectly, at least.

            More importantly, that’s what Jason had _lived_ for and Tim was going to do his damnedest to carry on his proud legacy.

            He followed Bruce’s every movement with excruciating care, listened and corrected when Bruce pointed out a flaw in his form. It was a simple routine, fifteen minutes long at most.

            Bruce taught it to him, then did it with him twice, and then watched him go through it on his own another two times.

            “Alright, now I want you to run half a mile on the treadmill,” Bruce instructed.

            Tim set out to do as ordered while Bruce made his way to the equipment lockers where the costumes and armor were kept. He was suiting up for his patrol.

            Tim steeled himself against the urge to feel hurt at the prospect of being left behind.

            He hadn’t even expected Bruce to still be _here_ when he’d arrived, having him remain for over an hour was an excessive sort of indulgence, really. Coddling.

            Gotham needed Batman to be out on the streets.

            She couldn’t afford for Batman to be stuck in the Cave with an incompetent Robin.

            Tim had just finished his half mile when Batman emerged, fully suited and armed.

            He was dramatic, intimidating. A normal person might’ve flinched when his stern gaze turned to assess them with an all-encompassing authority.

            Tim just wished he had his camera.

            “Run through the routine again. Five repetitions of the routine, then a half mile on the treadmill,” Batman instructs. “If you feel like you can manage it, do another few run throughs. After that, let Alfred get you a restorative snack and then make your way home for the night. Get some rest, go to school, and return here tomorrow after dark.”

            “Yes, sir,” Tim accepted.

            Batman looked at him, hard and unyielding – and possibly a bit surprised.

            Tim was still working on learning the human tells of both Bruce and Batman's expressiveness. He was a fast learner, but it was a complicated subject area – and the cowl didn’t help much at all with his ability to observe the minute changes.

            “Come back safe, Bruce,” Tim farewells, “And leave them alive.”

            Bruce gave a nod.

            And then turned and left without a word.

            Tim watched him get into the Batmobile and tear out of the Cave.

            Then he turned back to the mats and stepped into the routine Bruce had shown him.

            It was exhausting, and his legs were shaking by the time he finished the half mile after the next set of five. But he pushed through and did the routine five more times, and even managed to complete another half mile – if only just.

            Tim practically fell off the treadmill when he finished.

            He was forced to sit on the ice cold Cave floor for a long few minutes as he caught his breath. His muscles were aching, and they were still warm now. Once they cooled down… it would be much worse when he woke up in the morning.

            But how much worse would it be if he did one more set? Just one.

            Maybe skip the half mile on the treadmill and just do the cardio while going home?

            That’d be fine, right? And it would get him one repetition closer to being a decent Robin.

 

            “It’s not a cumulative affair, Master Timothy.”

 

            Tim looked up to see Alfred approaching with what appeared to be a smoothie.

            The butler stopped in front of Tim and offered a hand to help pull Tim to his feet. Tim took the offer and was surprised with the ease Alfred demonstrated in lifting him up. It could be that Tim weighed even less than he thought – a viable possibility – or the butler was much stronger than he appeared, also quite plausible.

 

            “Drink this, it will help with the acidic build up in your muscles, ease the cool down and allow you to recover enough to do all of this again tomorrow,” Alfred said, a warmth and disapproval mingling in equal measure through his rather brusque tone. “However, I must again caution that this training is not cumulative. You don’t get one step closer to the goal by doing one more repetition. There is no magic number of reiterations, no set count that means you’ll be ‘ready’ when you reach it. It is just as important for you to allow your body to recover as it is for you to push its limits. Push too hard, too fast, and you’ll damage yourself.”

            “I need to get better,” Tim countered.

            “And so you shall,” Alfred promised. “With time.”

            “I don’t have time. I need to be out there, with Batman, protecting Gotham,” Tim said, very carefully modulating his voice to keep it from sounding _too_ pleading.

            Alfred graced him with a small smile, soft and warm in a way Tim couldn’t quite interpret. Sad, maybe, but grateful, too. And most probably resigned. “You are already helping.”

            “Not enough.”

            “It’s a start. And _that_ is more than enough to matter.”

            Tim bit down another retort and instead wrapped his tongue around the straw of his smoothie. It was a… _unique_ flavor. It was almost unbearably sweet, but otherwise it was surprisingly palatable considering that the smoothie looked like liquefied grass with some slightly less liquefied probably-lettuce bits.

            He got through the smoothie quickly, sucking it down to keep from finding the after taste that might make him never want to take another swallow. It was a healthy, superfood smoothie and they were not famed for tasting good – with Tim’s usual troubles in regards to keeping his food down, he didn’t want to risk not being able to finish the concoction that would help him be a better Robin.

            Alfred watched, something like concern flitting across his reserved expression, but he made no comment as Tim finished off the smoothie, rolled his tongue over the aftertaste and frowned at the confusing, easy finish of it.

            “Too sweet?”

            Tim blinked up at the butler.

            After a beat, he remembered how to nod. “A bit, but it was still… delicious. Way better than I expected it to taste.”

            “Masters Dick and Jason both expressed quite a sweet tooth while residing here at the Manor. I feel it may be a while before I adjust the menu to suit your tastes,” Alfred explained.

            “Oh, Alfred,” Tim sighed, feeling the thick weight of something like guilt settle in his stomach alongside the more pleasant heft of the smoothie. “You don’t have to do that.”

            “On the contrary, Master Timothy,” Alfred responded with a perfunctory reservation that was somehow like a scolding and a warm hug rolled into one. “It is the least I can do.”

            Tim’s gaze was drawn towards his bare toes – looking pink and almost healthy from the exercise to spite his less than optimal circulation.

            Alfred’s tone softened. “Though Master Bruce may never admit it, you have saved his life, Timothy. I believe you have saved his sanity, as well. And not to mention the obvious, but you’ve also saved the lives of the criminals who might very well have soon become his victims. You got through to him in a manner I could not, and while you may not see the change in him immediately, you have affected him already. For that, I am beyond grateful, and I am deeply sorry that such a burden has had to fall upon your shoulders.”

            “It’s fine, Alfred, really,” Tim protested, voice small as he strained to look downwards far enough to make himself disappear through the Cave floor.

            “It is _not_ fine, Master Tim,” Alfred countered firmly. “But it _is_ the way things are, and I should like to ease your course however I can. A few menu adjustments is nothing compared to what you have done for me, for Bruce, and for Gotham.”

            Tim couldn’t find the strength to voice a response – and even if he had secured that much, he couldn’t find any words to respond _with_.

            A moment passed in silence.

            “Alright, let’s get you home then, or settled upstairs, if you’d rather?”

            Tim shook his head, finding his voice at last. “Bruce wanted me to go home,” Tim said, carefully maintaining a reasonable volume, “And I should just ride my bike back, I need the exercise and you need to be here in case Bruce needs you.”

            After a brief pause that Tim couldn’t quite call hesitation as Alfred looked him over with an unreadable expression, the butler sighed, “As you wish, Master Tim.”

            Relieved, Tim gave a nod.

            He handed Alfred back the tall glass that had contained his smoothie and walked on wobbly legs back to the edge of the practice mats where he’d left his socks and shoes. It was an effort to sit down to get them on, and frightfully difficult to force himself to stand again, but he managed the feat and then followed Alfred as the butler escorted him up to the main Manor. He again kept his gaze averted from the case containing Jason’s uniform.

            _Soon_.

            He promised, again.

            Soon, but not _yet_.

            His bike was right by the scullery door where he’d left it and the ride home, while slower going due to the fire in his limbs, wasn’t too excruciating.

            When Tim reached his own house, he tucked his bike by the door leading out to the back patio and made his way inside – feeling only the slightest bit guilty for not doing that one more set he’d been considering. His whole body was tingly, not quite numb, but not quite in pain either – which felt like an improvement, but Tim knew better than to trust that.

            He would wake up hurting tomorrow.

            He took a hot shower, thinking to help prevent the worst of it, and then curled up in bed with his tablet to do a bit of research on how exercise actually affected a body on a cellular level – and how to improve his strength and flexibility as quickly as possible.

            The initial results of his research were less than heartening – being that most of the sites he’d found on his first data skim were more for helping people with little time and even less motivation to get in shape. Tim had no shortage of time he was willing to dedicate to the task, and no issue with motivation, and he resolved that a twelve-week timeline was too drawn out.

            Tim needed to get better far faster than that if he wanted to be an adequate Robin.

 

            Unfortunately, he fell asleep with his tablet in his hands before he managed to delve deeper into the internet’s vast data stores.

 

            He woke the next morning when his automatic alarm went off at six and had gotten dressed and ready for school as soon as he was semi-conscious. He was working on his second cup of coffee by half passed and was digging into the archives of Google Scholar to find actual, scientific studies of how exercise functioned – which quickly proved far more informative than relying on the prettied up, and dumbed down articles in magazines and mainstream media.

            Tim had known it would, but some tragically optimistic little piece of him still always held out hope that the public would change their ways eventually.

            Regardless, Tim was able to find concrete answers to his most pressing questions before his coffee even managed to fully kick in.

 

            The fastest way to get genuinely strong was to lift heavy objects.

 

            Bruce hadn’t let him anywhere near the weights yet, and already Tim’s body was aching – a situation brought to the forefront of his mind as his muscles throbbed painfully at the mere thought of working through last night’s routine again, let alone of doing something like it with weights – but Tim committed the research to memory. Moved on to his next inquiry.

 

            The fastest way to gain endurance was to work ridiculously hard, with short intervals of true rest, and long intervals of medium rest – run hard during a workout, walk fast with weights while not officially working out, and sit and stretch calmly for periods in between.

 

            Expect and accept that it was going to hurt. Push through and then rest.

 

            Getting that far in his research took Tim the rest of the time he had available before he was required to make his way to school.

            Biking was unfortunately inefficient as a means of transit.

            Tim considered calling a Drake Industries driver to whisk him to school and back so he could focus on doing more research, but biking was exercise – and his habit of being unobtrusive and using his bike to sneak around Gotham after hours was probably the only reason he had the stamina to survive what little Bat training he’d been allowed to try.

            So the biking was important.

            Tim poured the rest of the coffee he’d brewed that morning into his usual massive thermos, crammed it into his back pack with his school materials, and then got peddling. He pushed himself on the trip, as fast as he could – which, with his muscles still aching from the night before, wasn’t all that fast. He arrived in plenty of time for class, but only improved on his usual commute time by about four minutes.

            It was frustrating, being so obviously terrible at something – even though he’d never before wanted to be a very physically inclined entity.

            Through homeroom, Tim ignored the homework he usually would have used that time to complete and instead spent the better part of an hour researching leg and wrist weights. He needed a set that could be gradually stepped up in terms of difficulty, but the mass needed to be dense and distributed over a slim-lined profile – to make the weights impossible to see when worn under his school uniform or casual clothes.

            The ones he found were pricey, but elegantly designed. Slim braces with slide inserts and clips for metal bars that ranged in density. And they were designed to be stacked, so each brace was outfitted to hold multiple bars that could be easily interchanged. It ran from the lowest weight of half a pound – the braces themselves without any additional weight – with up to 20 pounds theoretically able to be added.

            The design specifications recommended only going up to about 5 pounds on each limb, as higher than that could disrupt typical movement mechanics, and possibly harm his hips, knees, and ankles, particularly with long term use, but Tim intended to be careful.

            Besides, it wasn’t like he could just jump straight to the maximum weight anyhow.

            He would have to work up to it.

            Which meant the problem could be tabled until it became relevant.

            For now, Tim simply used his privilege as a Drake to place an order with express shipping and turned his thoughts to figuring out how to explain it to his parents in case they called to check up on him.

            He had never been a generally sports-inclined existence, so suddenly taking up soccer or rugby would be ridiculous – even if it would be helpful to explain any bruises he might acquire as Robin. Even if he didn’t get involved with any of the combat inherent in crime fighting, he could slip or trip or even just smack himself in the face with some nifty gadget or other.

            Tim needed something to explain such injuries. And to explain his sudden interest in utilizing the personal workout area in the Drake Estate’s east sunroom – a part of the mansion’s periphery that traditionally went even more unused that the rest of it. Tim’s parents were home _occasionally_ and his own continued occupation made sure that most of the main rooms were visited once a day or so.

            The workout area was only ever visited by the cleaning staff, and even that only happened once a week at most to whisk away the dust build up.

            For safety reasons, the door to the room had a log of entries and exits. Each entry activated an emergency alert system that could call for an ambulance if vital signs dropped to zero or a predetermined vocal passcode was given.

            Tim could probably get around the system, but it was annoying to have to do so in his own house, and it was likewise ridiculous not to take advantage of the setup he had at home to improve himself and build upon his workouts with Bruce.

            So, Tim needed a sport.

            But _what_ sport?

            It was a question Tim spent most of his remaining school day mulling over.

            Gymnastics was the first plausible option he considered.

            Gotham Prep Academy had a fairly prominent gymnastics team – with several dozen members and a regular place on the podium at the annual national competitions. It seemed like a well suited choice: strength and flexibility training, lots of random bruises, and enough prominence to support a high-level accredited trainer.

 

            And his prior infatuation with Dick Grayson's gymnastic abilities was an established aspect of his current personality – an aspect few people would ever potentially question.

 

            However, gymnastics required genuine commitment and there were few enough members on the team to make his absence actually noticeable. And between the requirement to compete, the close attention each team member received, and the difficulty that would be found in making actual progress in his skills without improving his competition score or actually attending every practice… it would be an inefficient method to fabricate an excuse for bruises.

            Less excuse than secondary, genuine cause… and it would be terribly time consuming.

            Eating up time that Tim no longer had available to waste.

            The gymnastics thought was helpful, however, to trigger another: figure skating.

            It was a sport Tim’s mother had always favored, so he could make an excuse of it being a way for him to feel closer to her – she would never actually come to a competition of his, but the idea that she might was the kind of generally motivating that no school psychologist would ever think to look beyond. Especially if he proved a rather poor competitor.

            The school had a skate team coach, but he only worked directly with the skaters for an hour a week, as the individuals were all tasked with finding their own day to day trainers.

            And the skate club where the Gotham Academy team practiced was only a few blocks from the school – and it opened its doors at six in the morning.

            Which meant Tim only needed to get up an hour earlier than usual, bike a few blocks further than usual, sign in under an official school designation, and then he could train to his own specifications every day before school. All needed to do was fabricate a trainer to register as his day to day coach, one with a background that would make his mother satisfied enough not to bring in her own expert to make Tim into a truly excellent skater.

            Tim would probably disappoint his mother in being only adequate at the one sport she didn’t look down on with disdain – honestly, he’d disappoint her by only being adequate at anything. It didn’t bother him now as much as it had in years before.

            If he had learned anything over the last fourteen years, it was that being superlative at something was still only enough to earn Janet Drake’s mild acceptance. He had grown passed such childish requirements of glowing parental approval.

            He could maintain a level of perfection and performance that would not shame the Drake name, but even if he dedicated his entire being to becoming a great skater, he was rather late to the game and would never be able to be a genuine champion – which Janet Drake would know and therefore be less disappointed in him for failing to progress to the Olympics.

            It wasn’t much, but even if she didn’t _approve_ of his attempt, Tim felt he could reasonably expect her not to disapprove so vehemently that she’d put a stop to it.

            Ice skating was the perfect cover.

            Tim would make the arrangements on Monday morning.

            Pick up a brochure from the sports office tomorrow. Spend a couple hours at the rink over the weekend to make a believable ruse of careful consideration on the matter. Maybe stay after the public skate to watch the Academy’s team work through a pre-competition practice.

            It would work.

            And he’d have a valid excuse for mysterious bruises by next week. And for his weight training purchasers.

            So, Bruce would have no excuse to avoid teaching him combat skills.

            All very useful in pursuit of his goal of becoming a respectable Robin.

 

            Tim tried to feel accomplished, to bask in the success of the day’s developments as he made his way home. But his muscles still burned and he still felt exhausted and inadequate.

            To mitigate that as best he could, Tim accomplished one more thing: making the formal arrangements for Mrs. Simz to return to work after another week allowed away.

            Then he did what he’d done the night before: ate a small dinner and finished off his homework as he tried not to go crazy while he waited for darkness to fall.

            Once it was finally dark enough to hide him, Tim biked up to Wayne Manor and knocked on the scullery door – more nervous this time than before, because of how _tonight_ he should be allowed to go patrolling with Batman.

_Should be_ standing as the crux.

 

            He managed a smile when Alfred let him in and reined in his focus as he was escorted to the Cave. He scanned the floor for Bruce to keep from glancing at Jason’s case.

            Still wearing the sleek black workout pants that kept Bruce Wayne from seeming _too_ much unavoidably like Batman while in the comfort of his own home, Bruce was working through a modified version of the routine he’d shown Tim last night – one that was far more complex and taxing, built for advanced practitioners. It was a routine Tim would not be able to copy for a good long while yet, a while of hard work slowly being laid out before him.

            But he would get there eventually.

            Tim would make sure of it.

            Bruce finished up his routine as Tim and Alfred approached.

            He gave a nod of greeting to them both and then instructed Tim to take off his shoes and run through his version of the routine alongside Bruce so they could ensure he was still using correct form and had recovered well from last night’s exertion.

            Once they’d done it together, Bruce had him run through it alone for the other four repetitions in the set. While Tim worked through it, Bruce strode off to somewhere in the Cave Tim couldn’t see from his position on the practice mats.

            He’d finished the routine set before Bruce returned.

            The gap of his absence was long enough for Tim to contemplate moving to finish the series off with the half mile on the treadmill that Bruce had wanted him to do last night – to well and truly finish off the exercise series correctly before he brought up the notion of patrolling as they had agreed upon.

            Tim had just about resolved to run the half mile when Bruce returned – carrying a box with what appeared to be a resized and properly armored version of his Robin suit prototype.

            Bruce’s expression was grave, serious in a way that Tim recognized as unhappy but already resigned. Relief flooded Tim’s system at the realization that getting Bruce to take him out tonight would not be another hard fight to push through.

            “Time to get changed,” Bruce announced, handing over the package.

            Tim nodded and followed Bruce to the alcove of semi-private changing nooks. He felt a little ridiculous being body conscious in front of _Batman_ , being that even if he’d been in great shape for his age, Bruce would’ve outclassed him by tenfold, but Tim was still glad for the semblance of privacy as he shimmied into his new suit.

            It took him longer to change than it did for Bruce, but Batman did not say anything to hurry him along. He simply swept out of the alcove and took up a position at the Batcomputer where he was going over the schematics of a warehouse as Tim stepped out to join him.

            “That’s the general storage facility at Robbinson Docks, isn’t it?”

            Batman gave a single nod.

            “Two weeks ago, I cleaned out a smuggling operation using it as their primary distribution center,” Batman explained. “I wanted to go back to ensure that the ring has been well and truly dismantled. No activity has been reported but I can teach you the methodology of investigating for it and check to ensure there are no fresh signs. Since you do not have the grip strength or the upper body conditioning required to make a grapple gun a reasonably safe method of travel for you, I felt this was a decent starting point.”

            It was not the outright patrol Tim had hoped for, but Batman made a valid point. And this was legitimate casework, so his involvement in the Crusade wasn’t being rendered entirely superfluous. With how pathetic he was, Tim supposed it was the best he could hope for.

            “That sounds agreeable,” Tim accepted.

            Batman gave another nod. “Then let’s get going.”

 

 

*  *  *

 

_The woman never smiles._

_She is at his side every second – in physical contact with him like she’s using the contact as a tether, and she’s constantly frowning like the feel of his skin beneath her fingertips is both disgusting and a distraction._

_A distraction from what, he doesn’t know – doesn’t care to know._

_His focus is hazy, limited at best. The anger helps and he nurses the grudge in the quiet hum of the seemingly unending plane ride – fans the anger as best he can, which makes his focus just that little bit sharper, makes the world feel a little less distant and makes him feel a little less like he’s stuck somehow underwater._

_The sensation of being underwater is terrifying – much too similar to the feeling of being underground, locked into what was supposed to be his eternal grave._

_He feels tight and cold and lost in the swirl of it._

_Only the space beneath the woman’s fingertips has true sensation. It sears his skin and keeps him grounded to a version of reality that he feels he can reasonably survive._

_She makes him feel almost alive, makes him want to feel alive – makes him **want**._

_But he can’t even make her smile – can’t make her feel even a fraction of what she makes him feel so effortlessly. She’s anxious, frustrated – he doesn’t know how he knows that._

****

**_Practice_ ** _, some distant part of his almost memories explain, **lots of practice reading people, reading faces**._

_He knows people, how to read them and how to work with them. He knows how to trade everything he is to make them give up something else he needs. He knows better than to trust, knows that she wants many things from him, but what he doesn’t quite remember is why he shouldn’t want to give her **everything** … especially when it still means gaining everything that he wants for his own independent self._

 

___________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah... Jason ain't doing so hot either, and this is all still pre-Pit, so his mindset is gonna get worse too...
> 
> NEXT TIME: Bruce begins to see his true failings, and he's forced to ask some hard questions.

**Author's Note:**

> I HATE the trope of having Tim Drake just magically be good at being Robin. He has like 0.02% of the natural penchant for the physical demands of Robin-ing that the others have (okay, maybe like 30%, because he is WAY ahead of the average kid, but he's still way behind where Dick and Jason started, and THOSE are the two he's comparing himself to, however ridiculous a comparison that might be) and he doesn't just poof into being as good at the role as his heroes. He's got the detective bit down, and the patience, and the determination, but the physical stuff is just not his thing.
> 
> Until he decides to MAKE it his thing.
> 
> And I don't like the blanket support of the Family that I've seen in a lot of representations. These people are all angry, jaded, and hurt... which is a cocktail that does not lead to loving support or even general acceptance or vague niceness... I've spent a long while wanting someone to show the Family hurting, to show them telling Tim that he can't do it (out of good intentions and desperate desires to keep him safe like they failed to keep Jason safe), to show the rest of the cape community being emotionally reactive and cruel to be kind...
> 
> And I want Tim to just blow all that negativity off and tell the whole fucking world to watch him become amazing.
> 
> (So yeah, I caved and am posting this... but I will only be updating it once a month!)  
> ((Probably...))


End file.
